these memories are just pieces of sky
by spheeris1
Summary: AU :: Multi-chapter :: Shifting POV :: Title from Beth Orton song :: Angst. Themes of a strong sexual nature. Love of all sorts. :: Spashley. Aiden/Ashley friendship. :: What is lost and what will last is sometimes the very same thing. :: COMPLETED
1. memory one

**I'll be honest - I wish I had somewhere else to post this. Not sure why, but putting this up at almost seems too exposed. But this is where my writing goes, for better or for worse.**

**Expect short chapters like this. After that, don't have expectations.**

****/ /

The first time she saw Aiden naked was around the age of five or so.

When you are that age, you'll laugh about just anything. Things are silly and stupid and you'll laugh until your stomach hurts. You'll laugh until you cannot breathe.  
And that's what they were doing, during what her nanny called a 'play-date' with the Dennison boy next door.  
They were not friends. They had just met.  
But Ashley was good with other kids - she didn't shy away and she didn't cling to her mother's leg. She was the kind of kid you could toss out into the sand-box and you wouldn't be kicking down her castle.

She just might kick down your castle, though. That's the kind of girl Ashley was at the age of five or so.

And Aiden has picked up a worm. Or told a knock-knock joke. Or snorted milk up his nose. It doesn't matter, not really, what happened and what caused the two of them to absolutely lose it on the patio outside.  
But they did, gripping their sides and Ashley's eyes started to tear up - she was laughing so much that her chest almost felt tight. And Aiden's eyes were welling-up as well, fat teardrops rolling down his cheeks.

At first, she didn't notice at all. But soon enough, Ashley realized that Aiden was not laughing anymore. He was crying, his face turning red out there in the sun and his tiny hands fisted in his lap, unruly black hair a mess on top of his head.

"...Hey, what's wrong?" She asked and the boy got up, rushing away from her and into his house, leaving her sitting on that patio outside - legs crossed and brown eyes blinking.  
After a moment or two, when he didn't quickly return and no adult came over to explain anything to her, Ashley took it upon herself to investigate.

That's what it felt like, too - an investigation. Her feet as quiet as possible, sneakers not making a sound on the plush carpet, and Ashley crept through these rooms and these hallways that did not belong to her.  
She was a thief. She was a cat. She was a ghost.  
But her cover was blown, in a sense, by the loud echo of skin on skin.  
And Ashley didn't gasp.  
And she didn't run away, terrified.  
She trembled and she drew closer still. Because that was the kind of girl Ashley was... at least around five or so.

There, beyond the crack of a door, strong and thin hands gripped this boy she didn't really know. Those hands shook Aiden, held his arms like twigs to be broken, and the boy kept on silently crying.

"You are not a baby anymore, Aiden. I cannot **believe** you... And you know that Marissa is not here to take care of this and I am busy... Now, clean up. And **stop** that crying this **instant**."

Ashley notices several things at once.  
The woman speaking, standing in heels so high you could fall off of them and break an arm, is Aiden's mother - the one who opened the door, the one who directed them to the patio and yard, the one who shut the glass doors on them.  
She looks at Aiden's face, ruddy with sadness, and she looks at his hands as they hold onto a pair of shorts - a damp patch darkening the light blue, pointing out the boy's apparent problem.  
And then Ashley notices that Aiden isn't wearing anything below his shirt anymore - no pants, no shorts, no underwear.  
Nothing at all.

She's not been told much, but she knows there are differences.  
Boys are not girls. Girls are not boys.  
Boys tend to have better toys to play with. Girls tend to scream and yell more for fun.  
But Ashley stared at Aiden, stared at something she was sure she shouldn't know about yet, and the laughter started to bubble up inside of her again. Not the kind of laughter that spoke of one day being a nervous chuckle, of wanting to know the unknown better... No, not that kind of laugh.  
That's a whole other story, though.

Ashley tried to stop it, but she could not and her giggle trickled out. Aiden's eyes found her and he darted away, the sound of whatever he was doing lost on Ashley as she sprinted away. Back down that hallway and down those stairs and back out to the patio, breathless with humor and with being caught out.

When Aiden finally came back out, in new shorts of an olive green, he sat down beside Ashley as she threw tiny stones from a path out into the grass.  
"You won't tell anyone... will you?"  
"'Bout what?"  
"About my... about my accident... you won't tell anyone, will you?"

Of course, back then, Ashley didn't understand what making such a promise would entail.  
She didn't know that there would come a time where she'd have to keep so much quiet.  
And she didn't know that there would come a time where she'd have so much to hide about herself as well, with only this boy beside her knowing the truth.  
She didn't know that they would become each other's keeper - sometimes for the good, but sometimes for the bad.

Back then, Aiden was just a new friend and she thought he was funny.  
And that was enough to ensure that she'd keep quiet about the fact that he laughed so hard that his peed in his shorts. That was enough for her to forget about a harsh mother and how she treated her son.

"Okay. I won't."  
"You **swear**?"  
"Want me to pinky-swear? 'Coz I will."  
"...Okay."

And their pinkies curled around each other, held for a second, then pulled apart.

/ /

**TBC**


	2. memory two

She finds boys amusing.  
In a ha-ha-ha kind of way. In a trivial way. In a shake-your-head-and-walk-away kind of way.  
It's not just what they have between their legs that she chuckles at.  
It's everything about them that she finds funny.

Aiden being the only exception, of course.  
Aiden is the only boy she can laugh at, but also laugh with.  
Aiden is the only boy she can joke with and he gets it.  
He gets it and he gives it back.

Like tonight, which is like every other night, the two of them propped up on some couch as this party goes full swing.  
A lame party, yes. A lame party full of annoying girls and drunk guys, just a few illegal substances shy of being interesting.  
And Aiden nudges her, like every other night, and points out some red-head that just walked past them - teetering on her flats, ass wrapped in denim and lazily holding a plastic cup in her hand.

"Yea?" He nods happily and with a grin.  
"Sure." Ashley shrugs.

Aiden doesn't care that Ashley is gay. He says it gives them more in common, gives them something cool to share.  
They've shared a lot already, after-all.  
They've shared parents who hurt children. They've shared crushes and wet dreams. They've shared a bed more times than one can count on fingers and toes, all platonically.  
He is like a brother, but better.  
She is like a sister, but better.  
They are chosen siblings, the family you'd pick if you had a choice, and they would both choose each other over their biological family any day.

Ashley has a little sister, a brat in the making - with a pony-tail and already ordering around the staff. She has a mother and a father, a picture perfect couple with a whole lot of cracks under the surface... if you look close enough.  
No one does, though.  
The closer you look, the more you wish you hadn't. Ashley learned that the hard way.  
Aiden has parents, if you can call two people who are never around 'parents'.  
They work and they fly across oceans and they talk on phones all the time. The only time they see Aiden is at Christmas, but that is full of chastisement and bitterness.  
He was basically raised by a live-in nanny.  
So was Ashley.  
That's just another thing they have in common.

"Half the time, I think they want to be hitting on you, Ash."  
"Hmm?"  
"Girls. When we go out, I think they want you more."  
"Is this the pity portion of the night, Aiden?"  
"No, I mean... C'mon, the last time we were out, you know what I am saying? I've never had a chick give me such mixed signals."  
"She gave you a damn blow-job. What's confusing about that?"  
"Yea, okay, but then she asked about you after she was done..."

Ashley laughs, because it is hilarious. And Aiden knows she isn't being cruel.  
They don't set out to wound one another.  
They actually don't set out to wound anyone. Always up front whenever they want a hook-up - Aiden never makes it seem like a date, Ashley never promises a number or a morning after.  
They compare notes on who they have slept with. They mention a name or two, if the girl swings both ways, and do not get possessive over a simple fuck.  
Toys or secrets or sex - Aiden and Ashley share.  
They know how to play nicely with each other.

"It would be awesome if we could sleep with them at the same time, that way the girl would get the best of both worlds... know what I mean?"  
"No,** don't **say it, Aiden-"  
"What? It's just a thought..."  
"Yea, well, keep it that way, okay?"  
"Fine, fine."

Aiden always says 'fine, fine', which means he'll just bring up said topic again.  
Maybe once Ashley is drunk. Maybe after Ashley has screwed some girl. Maybe first thing in the morning, when she is hung-over and barely awake.  
He likes to do that, to try and get her to agree to things when she can barely think.  
There was that one time, when she was thirteen, and he called her up. He begged her to go to see some stupid film, some stupid film that Ashley did not want to see.  
But she was sleepy and said 'yes' and then, once six p.m. rolled around, the boy was on her door-step - grinning like a little shit.  
And she let him get away with it.

Ashley would probably let Aiden get away with just about anything.

The red-head wanders back and smiles at Aiden. Or at Ashley.  
Neither of them could really tell.  
Aiden's smile is wicked and Ashley knows he is still courting the idea of the two of them being conquerors of the bedroom - getting every willing woman they can, conquests between friends.  
A new game in a world full of boring events like this one. A new way of having a good time now that they have had fun almost every other way.  
And Ashley shouldn't even consider it.

But she is.

The red-head is grinding back against Aiden and the boy is holding onto her hips. Ashley is watching the girl as she leans her head back, lips moving against Aiden's neck.  
And his eyes flash over to Ashley.  
And the red-head looks over to Ashley as well.  
And it is clear as fucking crystal what they both want, even if it is for slightly different reasons.

Ashley knows she shouldn't even consider it.

But she is.

And deep bass pulses along the soles of her feet, forcing its way past the rubber of her shoes, then the beat follows up her legs as she walks slowly towards the two of them.  
By the time the music reaches her gut and hits her ears, she is standing in front of the red-head and catching Aiden's amused smirk in the background.

"Your friend here says we could have some laughs..." The red-head murmurs, body still moving sensually against Aiden, and one pale palm reaches out and fastens itself to the end of Ashley's shirt.  
And Ashley's eyes flicker over the red-head's rather lovely mouth, the way the tip of the tongue darts out to moisten the bottom lip.

It's beyond consideration now, though.

Ashley is kissing the red-head and pressing her thigh between the girl's legs.  
Aiden is kissing the red-head's neck and slipping his hands up under the girl's blouse.

/ /

When it is all said and done the next day, the two of them drinking coffee at the cafe they always go to, Aiden comments that it is like 'being in that movie, you know, Cruel Intentions...'

Which isn't quite what they did. Or what they are probably going to do again.  
But she lets it slide, because - despite her serious reservations - last night was fun.  
It was decadent and raw. And it was kind of wrong without being** wrong**.

"As long as you know that I am the Ryan Phillippe of this, okay?"  
"Excuse me? I'm the guy here."  
"Please. I am **so** much more of guy than you..."  
"Whatever. But wait... then that makes me Sarah Michelle Geller... I don't want to be the bitch!"

Ashley laughs out loud and pats his cheek. It is affectionate. It is harder than it should be, too.  
Aiden doesn't mind, though.

"But at least you are a hot bitch."

He rolls his eyes and she grins.  
And they don't say it, but they both know that they've found another thing to have in common.

/ /

**TBC**


	3. memory three

There is the kind of innocence that looks like naivete, wide eyes and a clean mind behind them. And there is the kind of innocence that is just a lie, little girl dresses and a permanent 'oops!' expression upon the face.

Spencer is somewhere in-between the two.

If you were to ask Mike Henderson, the boy she lost her virginity to, he'd say that she was not too easy to catch and not too easy to woo.  
She had a plan about all of this, waiting until a certain day and a certain moment.  
It was on a Friday night and her parents were out and her brother was at a football game.  
Mike came over, after months of heavy make-out sessions and touches that strayed too far off course, and he finally got what he was looking for.  
Spencer didn't feel used, though.  
Because she was using him, too.

Friends had said that it might hurt and it did. Friends had said that it wasn't as great as all that and it wasn't. But all those friends wanted to do it again, wanted to let some boy hump his way inside of them, and Spencer wasn't interested.  
She didn't feel like her virginity was 'lost' that night with Mike Henderson.  
More like it was misplaced, somewhere in the confines of her bedsheets, just waiting for the day where sex felt good and not strange.  
But it's what you do, isn't it?  
You give up this thing, a bit of flesh buried within you, and everyone makes this big deal about it - you are a woman now, you are no longer a saint on bended knee.

You are dipped in sin.

Her mother would be proud, in a twisted sort of way, to know Spencer's thoughts.  
Being the pusher of this ancient drug, Paula Carlin loves Catholicism the way others love fast food - she binges on the stuff, scripture left around like burger wrappers.  
And she fed that shit to her children all the time as well.  
Spencer and her brother, Glen, bloated on God.

Okay... maybe her mother wouldn't particularly like **these** thoughts... But Spencer finds them amusing as she chuckles into her bottle of generic beer.  
It's the same one she's been nursing for the past hour and a half, because she is not much for drinking. She only drinks when nervous anyway. And this party - while huge and while loud and while filled with a lot of faces that she does not know - does not make Spencer nervous at all.

"What's so funny, Carlin?"  
"Nothing that would make sense to anyone."

Carmen eyes her suspiciously, but with a grin nonetheless - like she is the only one who can fathom Spencer at all. And maybe that is true. More than likely, though, it is not.  
Carmen, after-all, thinks she must protect Spencer most of the time.  
Shoving bullies and carrying books and offering rides home, like a knight in a used car, swooping in for a damsel that is not really in distress.  
But blonde hair and big blue eyes and a sweet voice will mask a lot of things.  
It'll cover up maliciousness that pretends to be forgetfulness. It'll hide anger and make it look like indifference. It can take dangerous longings and turn them into shadows.

No, Spencer isn't innocent.  
Everyone just thinks she is.

"This party is out of control..."  
"Really? Seems like every other."  
"Girl, do you not know where we are?"  
"Um... a house full of drunk and horny people?"

Carmen's laugh is nice and kind. Carmen is the innocent one, Spencer thinks.  
Carmen is the one who needs protection, Spencer muses, tipping back the last of that long beer. Spencer knows she would make a shitty knight, though.  
She knows that saving someone takes a level of courage that she just does not have.

"This is Aiden Dennison's place, Spence. It's basically a sex den."

Spencer rolls her eyes and pointedly looks around. Sure, there is the same old sloppy display of half-dance, half-grope going on. And lips smashed together, teeth latched to a neck or two. Nothing out of the ordinary. No home-made porno going on in the corner.

"Sure, Carmen."  
"It **is**! I swear it... These parties are famous for it."  
"...Then where is the sex? I just see... ugh, I just see** that**."

And Spencer points to two girls slutting it up for a couple of guys, lots of tongue from the ladies and lots of drooling from the men. Scenes like this actually annoy Spencer on a deeper level. Scenes like this actually make her blood boil, just a bit. Scenes like this make Spencer's body twist and turn uncomfortably, a heat under her skin that just cannot be cooled.  
But that's another tale for another time.

"The third floor. I can't believe you don't know about this."  
"Well... c'mon then, what's on the third floor?"  
"Okay, so down here is the dancing, right? Second floor is your regular drunken fumbles and, you know, people probably throwing up... But on the third floor, that's where Dennison and his buddy take people and fuck all night."  
"...Carmen?"  
"Yea?"  
"How do you know about this? You been holding out on me?"  
"No!"  
"Uh huh, I get it now... **this** is what you get up to, going up to the third floor and getting down and dirty..."

Carmen blushes and that further propagates Spencer's theory that Carmen is the one to be resuced, pulled from the tower and awakened with a kiss.  
Spencer can see herself all too well - caught between the Witch of every fairy tale and Wendy, still flightless in her room.

"Fuck it, I'll prove it to you." Carmen states and Spencer actually grabs another beer, not even sure why. She forces it open as Carmen flags over some girl, a girl with a pretty face and wild hair and a deadly glint in her eyes.  
Spencer doesn't want to look at this girl, for a variety of reasons, reasons that no one - not even Carmen - knows about just yet.

"Madison, you've been up to the third floor, right?"  
"Who wants to know?"  
"Spencer doesn't believe me."

This Madison looks her up and down, crossing her arms in the process. Spencer doesn't flinch under the gaze. She tosses it right back. Just like a punch.

"Have they asked you?" Madison asks and Spencer swirls a sip of beer in her mouth before responding.  
"Who?"  
"Aiden and Ashley."  
"Who are they?"  
"This is Aiden's house and it is their party. And you can only go up to the third floor if they ask you... and if you go up there, you don't talk about it later. Got it, girls?"

And with that Madison turns on her pretty heel, disappearing into the crowd. And the music seems to get louder and louder. And Carmen smirks some, cutely honest in her joy at being right and Spencer being wrong... just like a kid, just like a child in a room full of stupid adults.  
And Spencer is one of those stupid grown-ups, holding her beer in one hand and stare slipping upwards and to the third floor.  
Wondering who is really up there, what is really going on...

...and wondering why she has this urge to see it for herself.

But it's what you do, isn't it?  
Seek out that which is bad for you, walk into that basement after dark or give things up just for the sake of giving it up... It's what you do.  
It's what Spencer's been doing for a long damn time.

/ /

**TBC**


	4. memory four

It came to her as swiftly as a kick to the gut.

One minute, she was smiling about something and clutching a girl's hand to her chest, the two of them in their own little world.  
And then there was the storm - swirling up in her mother's eyes, picking up Spencer like the wind rips trees from the ground - and Rebecca was leaving her room, forgetting her back-pack and feet loud on the stairs.

"I won't have this in my home, Spencer. Do you understand me? **I won't have it**."

If Spencer were the kind of person to be dense, she might have looked up at her mother in absolute shock and stuttered out questions, begged for answers.  
But Spencer was never one for living in a state of denial.  
She knew what her mother was so opposed to.  
Spencer knew the demon that lived inside her body and she knew just what that dark beast craved.

And Paula Carlin prayed. She made sure that Spencer's knees were upon the altar every Sunday. And Paula Carlin kept Rebecca very far away.

Of course, what Paula Carlin didn't understand was the fact that there would always be another 'Rebecca'.  
Always another girl's hand to hold. Always another pair of soft lips to kiss. Always another way to indulge in evil-doing, hidden in the dark and hushed out in hot whispers.

'Rebecca' became Janice. And Janice became Victoria. And Victoria became Liz.  
And so on. And so forth.  
Spencer is no longer a novice to her desires, having been touched and having been caressed, having been licked and having been breathed in like the sweetest perfume.  
There are invisible notches on her head-board, marked off with a grin, a silent slap to her mother's holier-than-thou face.  
Every girl is just a dig at the woman who condemns her. Every bit of illicit activity is just another 'fuck you' to the woman who believes Spencer will burn in Hell.

Maybe that is why she is here, at Aiden Dennison's house, the sixth party of the month so far and just as many people filling up the place.  
Maybe that is why she is here, not over-dressed but certainly looking like a girl with a purpose, on her second beer and leaning against one of the walls as she keeps her gaze on where the action is - a murky landing, barely hit by these blue and pink lights that spin around, and the vague outline of a door in the haze.  
Maybe that is why she keeps coming here, hoping to be seen by one of them, hoping to go up there and mess around and to imagine the rage that would pour from her mother's mouth.

Maybe that's why she does all these things - why she lies about her nights, why she fakes sincerity and makes sure her family knows it is false, why she kisses nameless women and pushes them away with a sneer.

Poor Carmen, Spencer thinks, she doesn't know a damn thing about me.

/ /

She sees the eyes first, lit up for a second by the strobe.  
Dark and cool, across the room, a lazy blink and then a lazy stare - eyes that seem to think they have everything and everyone figured out.  
And Spencer knows, without a single doubt, that those eyes belong to Ashley Davies.

Spencer did her research, after-all.  
She is not one for random acts. She is the kind of person who likes to plan her movements.  
And this needed to be planned, because Carmen was right about one thing - these parties are very well known and heavily attended by people just aching to be 'chosen'.  
Most schools know about these parties, even if they are not in this particular county. Most kids know about them, quiet conversations over-heard by locker doors.  
These parties are rumors and urban legends. These parties are every college grad's envy and every parent's nightmare.

Aiden Dennison and Ashley Davies.  
The guy is handsome enough, looking the perfect mix of young playboy and roguish jock. Spencer has watched him work this room for several nights now, the way he slides up and speaks soft and makes some girls go weak.  
But it is always that other piece of the puzzle, the sly swagger of Ashley as she walks up to her partner in crime and their prey, that's what Spencer likes to see.  
That's what Spencer loves to see.

So confident and so at ease, like the world is hers for the taking - and Spencer suspects that, somehow, it is just that. A whole bunch of lands and a whole bunch of bodies... all for Ashley Davies.  
And Spencer wants the girl more than anything. The want pulls at her and tugs at her almost constantly, it wakes her up in the middle of the night and it clouds her vision during classes.

Maybe it is not vengeance at all this time.  
Maybe it is a case of innocent lust this time, if there is such a thing.

But the answer doesn't matter, only getting what she wants matters.

"Having a good time?" A voice coasts over her ear, someone suddenly in her personal space.  
And normally, Spencer would look with disdain and walk away from any boy who tried out his tired lines on her.  
This boy, though, this boy can talk to her all night if he'd like to.

Spencer allows a small grin, a knowing grin, to blossom from her lips.

"You certainly know how throw a party."  
"Ah, so this isn't your first time here?"  
"No."

He smiles back, just as insightful as she is about all of this. He knows that she's been here more nights than anyone else these days, stalking the dance-floor and just waiting.  
He knows it. And Spencer** knows **that he knows it, too.

"There's always one question I ask first and you must answer truthfully... okay?" Aiden says quietly into her ear, able to block out the music with his voice.  
"Okay."  
"Which one of us keeps you coming back?"

And Spencer looks across the room, back into those eyes that make claims no one should ever be able to make, and Spencer's heartbeat flutters in her chest as if she were a new-born bride near the honeymoon suite.

"Her." Spencer states with a slight nod and Aiden chuckles by her side and, across that room and across that sea of wasted youth, Ashley Davies smirks as if she knew Spencer's choice all along.

/ /

**TBC**


	5. memory five

**Quick note: I changed the font type for the 'rules' bit, but this site might not show correctly. I don't know why I am telling you this... but I am.**

/ /

They've been making rules for years and years, each one set up to keep them safe and to keep them in check.

If Ashley climbs the tree to get the apples, Aiden must carry them all back - using his shirt like a cloth basket. If Aiden steals the alcohol from his father's bar, Ashley always lets the boy have most of it and doesn't pout like a child.

They've been making rules for so long, all to keep things fair and to keep things cool.  
And when this 'idea' came into being, beyond that first night with some red-headed woman, they did as they always had done - sitting down together and fixing the finer details of this new world they were creating. Ashley had to laugh out loud as the boy actually broke out his busted-up notebook, left over from a time where he once cared about school and grades and pleasing people, and jotted each mandate down in tidy hand-writing.

1) Aiden's house, so Aiden gets first choice of who they will sleep with.  
2) But, in the end, we both must agree upon the girl.  
3) If the girl is more interested in Aiden, then Aiden gets more time - called the 'warm-up'.  
4) If the girl is more interested in Ashley, the reverse is equally true.  
5) The girl must be aware that we are a package deal and accept that fact. If the girl does not agree, then she is more than welcome to stay downstairs.  
6) If the girl accepts, she will be asked to keep what happens to herself. It keeps the mystery alive for prospective others.  
7) There is always protection used.  
8) There are no hidden cameras.  
9) No bondage or rough play, unless a wrist or two gets held down - but not held down with the intent to restrain. Just for fun.  
10) However, there will be the possibility of a strap-on being used, dependant on the situation and the girl herself.  
11) The girl will be asked what she particularly likes/dislikes and that will be taken into consideration. Everyone is meant to have a great time, after-all.  
12) And the last rule, no repeat fucks. No sneaking off with a girl during a party and getting your rocks off solo. It is double play or no play. That's the whole point of this. That's the reason for the room and the seduction and all these rules - it is Aiden and Ashley, together.

Or it is nothing at all.  
That's the law they both laid down, giggling like kids again over their list, yet knowing that Aiden would turn that room into a whole other universe and that Ashley would take part in this master-plan and no one would mess it up.  
Not even one of them.

Aiden's parents don't know about any of this, especially since they are gone all the time. Marissa, the long-suffering nanny of Aiden's childhood, was let go four or five years ago - the parents felt that Aiden didn't need constant supervision anymore.  
Old enough to know better, sure, but Aiden still was upset the day Marissa left and Ashley - not being the best at traditional comfort, but damn good at being a friend - took the boy out to the movies where they drank stolen liquor and rated the looks of every girl on the screen.

He still cried like a baby.  
But Ashley kept that to herself as well. Just like everything else that wasn't meant for others to know.  
Just like Aiden kept Ashley's darkest knowledge, those things she didn't dare speak about - except for the one time she was so blitzed that it all came tumbling out, a mess of broken words leaving her lips as she flailed around Aiden's kitchen at two in the morning - and the boy just offered her water and aspirin and a pillow for her head.  
He didn't try to talk her to death. He just let it be and didn't bring it up the next day.

This is why they work. This is why this whole set-up of getting girls and having sex with them, at the same time, works.  
It's Aiden and Ashley, together and against the whole fucking world.

/ /

She'll admit it easily, if you were to ask her, and she'd not deny it later.  
Even if she knew what was to come, even if she knew how all of this would go down and spin so far out of control... Ashley wouldn't be able to lie, not about this moment.

The moment she walks up, Aiden's body close to this girl - close but not touching, not yet - and she can feel this girl staring.  
The moment she is near enough to get a better look at this girl who has been edging out all the others and Ashley doesn't know, for a second, how to look away from this girl.  
The moment that she is caught by blue eyes and it creates this odd sensation in her body, a shaking deep within that Ashley shoves away all too quickly.

She'll admit it, though.  
She'll admit that, in this moment, something undefinable shifts and makes things unstable.

She'll admit it, yes... but she'll ignore it, too.

/ /

"Ashley, meet..." Aiden starts and Ashley leans in, ready for first contact, for that first blast of warm air upon her skin.  
And she is not disappointed.  
"Spencer." The girl supplies, mouth oh so close, and those blue eyes flash, oh so eager.  
Ashley smiles and slips her hand forward, finding the girl's arm, and gently runs her fingers along the flesh.  
And she trades favors, allow her own lips to graze the girl's cheek as she speaks.  
"I'm Ashley."  
And Spencer shivers as she replies.  
"I know."

She can sense Aiden's grin before she sees it and cocks an eyebrow at him as she slowly steps back. He runs the palm of his hand over Spencer's shoulder and then moves to be at Ashley's side, slinging an arm about her.

"I'll let Ashley explain some things and... hopefully... I'll be seeing you later, Spencer." And he leans in, leaving a delicate kiss on the girl's cheek.  
Most girls get flustered at that moment, something so kind proceeding something so dirty, and Ashley can see them wondering - not just about what they are going to do, up in a room that people gossip about, but they wonder about Aiden.  
They wonder why he is single. They wonder about how it would be to wake up to him. They wonder how to catch him and keep him for more than one night.

But Spencer's gaze is fixed on Ashley and as much as Ashley is unnerved by it, there is another part of her - another part she is pushing and shoving and suddenly terrified of - that is anything but unnerved.

She takes Spencer's hand in her own, instinctually lacing their fingers together, only turning back at the beginning - one more glance into those damn blue eyes.

"Follow me."

And she knows that Spencer will do just that.

/ /

**TBC**


	6. memory six

It used to be a guest bedroom, one that not a single guest ever saw.  
Those social friends only came by for New Year's Eve, drinking champagne and toasting the fact that they were all wealthy - they didn't stay the night in a mansion of vapid compliments and botox-laced faces.  
They all went home, to their own secrets and their own bedrooms full of hidden things.

It used to be a place of promise, maybe, a room where someone near and dear could rest their weary head. But Aiden's parents don't have companions - they have minions, they have ass-kissers, they have yes men and women.  
And Aiden, for all his good looks and money and the shiny car in the drive, only has one real friend.

And even she doesn't spend the night in that room.

He remembers standing there, musing over the white walls and the white carpet, the four-poster bed and the bathroom to the right. And, in his head, Aiden pictured black walls and rich red sheets and candles and all the trappings of a sexual heaven.  
But he had to laugh at himself.  
Aiden Dennison is no Hugh Hefner. There will be no smoking jacket or martinis in this room.  
They will not be inviting a bunch of people into this room and taking pictures of smiling blondes - topless and stupid. There won't be a stripper pole in the middle.

There won't even be candles, not really.

But he knew that 'white' wouldn't do, not at all. So, he went out and bought some black paint and got some sheets from one of the linen closets - that probably cost so much money, but Aiden didn't give a fuck - to use as drop-cloths.  
And he painted the walls, watched them go from bright to dark.  
And he got rid of the vanity table. And, even though it took him a whole Saturday - a day he normally spends moving around the city in Ashley's BMW, the two of them scamming on girls and trading verbal jabs - Aiden ripped up that blinding white carpet and revealed the slats of wood underneath.  
The only thing he kept as is was the bed, sturdy and solid oak that had been varnished to a deep brown, it would work well for what he had planned.

For what he and Ashley had planned.

He stood there, paint on his face and hands and sweat on his forehead, and looked at this room. It used to be a guest bedroom, it used to have a normal function and purpose, it used to be innocent.

But Aiden knew that, once they were done with it, this room would be anything but plain.

/ /

"So, there are a few rules."  
"...Okay."

Ashley stays close to Spencer, but allows their hands to part. She notes the way that Spencer lingers, though. She notes the way those fingers are still vaguely open, still wanting Ashley to return.  
And it makes Ashley inwardly grin.

Because this is the fun part. Not that the sex isn't fun, it is.  
But everyone knows that the chase is the best part, the watching and the waiting and the things you say, the tales you weave, the seduction and the seconds before lips touch, before that first touch of hidden skin to hidden skin.

Spencer wants this and Ashley can feel that as surely as one feels sunlight on their face.

"If you choose to have sex with me, then you'll be having sex with Aiden as well. This is really the only rule that makes or breaks what happens next."  
"It's the two of you... or nothing at all then?"

Ashley moves just a bit closer, looks into those stunning eyes and notices them growing dark, dilating wildly with longing.  
It is intoxicating, you know, to be wanted... to be craved... to be desired.  
Ashley doubts that she will ever grow tired of such a feeling.  
And there are many feelings she has let go off - feelings like childish compassion, feelings like casual kindness, feelings like familial love - but this one, the rush and impact of physical longing from and towards another person... No, Ashley doubts she'll ever get rid of that one.  
It is almost the only thing that feels good at all in her world.  
She won't let it go easily.

"Mmm hmm..." Ashley hums, centimeters away from Spencer's mouth and cheek, hovering there as steady as her own heart-beat.  
There are nights, up in this room, when the girl is really all about Aiden and his boyish qualities. Ashley will finish things and, if she is lucky, she'll get off as well. But on those nights, she mostly just fakes it and helps a friend out.  
But she knows that tonight will be good.  
Because this want is going two-ways.  
She likes the slope of Spencer's exposed neck and she likes Spencer's sure voice. She enjoys those eyes, their depth and their experience. She even likes the way that Spencer puts her on edge, unexplainable and scary fluttering in the pit of her stomach.

Ashley knows that tonight will be memorable.

Spencer closes the gap, bridging that extremely minimal distance between the two of them, pressing a kiss to Ashley's lips that is only a hint of what could be delivered - somehow soft and demanding at the same time, probing and reserved, an alluring contradiction.  
And Ashley hears, quite to her own surprise, the sound of a breath being trapped in a throat - her own breath, her own throat.

"If it means I get you, then I'll gladly have both of you." Spencer whispers against Ashley's mouth and, just like some long-dead man proclaimed hundreds and hundreds and hundreds of years ago, the die is most definitely cast.

/ /

**TBC**


	7. memory seven

**Ah, so this story is kicking off some interesting questions. Go ahead, bring'em on. I won't say I'll fully answer them, especially if my answers will give away the plot, but I will try.**

**Also, I swear I am not taking my time to be an a**. It's just how I write. Plus, short chapters, remember? Besides... delay is half the fun. ;)**

/ /

The three of them were in Aiden's bedroom, littered with the regular items that most guys have and the general disheveled nature of any young person's personal space.  
But, to Ashley, everything about this room looked kid-sized next to what they were about to do.

Aiden and Ashley both stood there, the previous confidence slipping away as the red-headed woman less-than-soberly walked towards Aiden's unmade bed.  
This woman chuckled at the two of them once she sat down, a light and drunk sound echoing around the walls as they continued to stand still - immobile and with not a single idea of how to proceed.

What did Ashley know of threesomes? What did Aiden know?  
Nothing. They knew absolutely nothing about such things, except that they existed and that they happened in porn.  
Aiden always thought it would be weird to have one with another guy, not because of any homophobic leanings, but because of the sense of competition.  
Would the other guy be bigger? Longer? Better? Would Aiden be able to keep up or would he just come off as the loser in such a game?  
For Aiden, it all came down to insecurities.  
Ashley always thought it would require too much work, trying to pay attention to more than one girl and have an orgasm yourself. What if neither one gave enough attention to her? What if she was left being the one fucking all night and not getting fucked?  
For Ashley, it all came down to selfishness.

But there they were, in Aiden's bedroom - with all his cds and his gym clothes on the floor and some idiotic poster on the wall - there they were, with a semi-trashed red-head who wanted to have sex with them both.  
At the same time. Right then and there.

"What was that down there? All bark and no bite?"

The question jolts Aiden back to life, his eyes darting from Ashley's and to the red-head's in a nervous way, trying to gather back the strut that had carried him this far.  
And so he walks over, sitting on one side of her, chancing one more look to Ashley - conveying his trepidation and his giddy wonderment at this turn of events - then he leans in and they are kissing.  
They are kissing and not coming up for air and Ashley doesn't feel turned-on.  
She just feels uncomfortable, like opening the door and finding your parents getting it on.  
But the red-read breaks away, leaving Aiden with a slightly drugged look on his face, and Ashley has to smirk just a bit.  
The red-head** is **a good kisser, that much Ashley knows.

"Not without you, sexy... I want **both** of you."

And Ashley takes a deep breath, steeling herself as if this were some defining moment in her young life. And perhaps it is, though she doesn't know that as it is happening.  
Oh, it's something major, alright - the kind of thing you hear boasted about, but rarely believe.  
But Ashley didn't know, as she sat down and felt that hand slide up her bare thigh and up under her skirt, what this moment would truly do.

It changed all things. It ended one period of time and started another.  
It brought Aiden and Ashley closer. And it'll break them apart, one day, too.

All either of them knew, in that moment, was that they were the students and this red-head was the teacher.  
She was the prototype, the girl to start it all.  
And she was the example, the one who helped them learn.  
The nerves they both had - the shyness and the laughter that neither of them could contain - she accepted it. And she teased it away from them, she sucked it away from them, she fucked it all away from them and left them completely different than before.

And the rest, as they say, is history.

/ /

In all honesty, she isn't thinking about it.  
It is as far from her mind as the moon is from her touch, way up there in the sky and her feet way down here on the ground.  
And, true, she's never been in a situation like this before.  
Maybe she should be worried or nervous. Maybe she should change her mind and go back downstairs and drink another beer.  
Maybe she should go home.

But when she thinks of home, she thinks of her mother. And when she thinks of her mother, something fine and thin snaps inside of her body - another delicate connection forcibly severed.

And Spencer won't be going home tonight.

/ /

Ashley's body is warm against her, thigh snug between Spencer's legs, and lips leisurely trail up her neck. And she can tell that Ashley likes her neck quite a bit, the way the girl seems to subtly sigh in pleasure with each nip and each languid suck of the flesh.

By the time those lips reach Spencer's ear, she is aching in every place - where she is wet, where her heart thuds, in the muscles that help her to stand.

"So, Spencer... what do you like to do?"

Ashley's voice is heavy and Spencer has to swallow hard before she can reply, finding her own hands slipping roughly along Ashley's hips, fingers flexing and begging to go past the jeans, to find the skin, to sample that heat that is so near and so tantalizing.

"What... what do you mean... exactly?" Spencer's hushes out, barely making the words move out of her mouth, noting that over-whelming desire is slowing down her ability to speak.  
Or think. Or function at all.  
Instead of an explanation, though, Ashley is kissing her.  
Ashley is kissing her, pushing her tongue past a rather weak barrier, and filling up whatever meager space left untouched.  
And that nearly does it, that nearly sets loose the lion in Spencer's blood.  
That nearly takes her over as she moans into Ashley's mouth and she rocks against Ashley's leg, grinding without a thought beyond sensation.  
Spencer's hands get their own ideas, too.  
They move from Ashley's hips and jerk the girl closer, gripping Ashley's ass and causing the girl to straddle Spencer's own thigh.  
And when Spencer feels a corresponding thrust... and when she feels that kiss get desperate and deep...

Spencer knows, right then, what she likes to do.

And Spencer knows what she wants, knows what she is willing to do to get it, knows who it will hurt and who it will amuse.

Right then, Spencer knows everything she has ever needed to know.

She pulls back, just a bit, shuddering almost violently because Ashley's hands have finally found her and have slithered underneath her top and are leaving unbearable heat in their wake.

"I like to get fucked..."

And Ashley's eyes, already so laden with lust, grow darker.

"...and I want you to fuck me."

/ /

**TBC**


	8. memory eight

**Okay. So, time for sex. Well... at least the style of sex that I write. Not terribly blunt, but not curtains billowing in the wind either.**

/ /

The music is so loud, filling up his ears and the lights spin around so fast, turning faces into nothing more than briefly highlighted glimpses - gazes caught for a second, then gone again.  
But this is how so many nights are now.  
And not every party is as crowded as this one. Not every party ends up with a girl between himself and his best friend.  
There are times where Aiden ends up dancing with a variety of girls all night, slow groping and an ass pushed into his crotch. There are times where he just stands quietly and sips on his drink, a Jack & Coke, swirling the ice around as bodies move about him in a rush.  
There are times where one of them puts out the word, makes the plans... only to take it all back, only to leave the place locked up tight as a drum and the windows dark to anyone looking in.

There are nights where they go to familiar haunts, clubs with bad techno and all the typical high-school drama waiting in the wings, and they joke around and they kiss strangers and Ashley will run away before some crazy girl can try and force the brunette to stay and Aiden will write down fake phone numbers, giving them to the women who caress his cheek.  
There are nights where they do not go out at all, Aiden in his room and listening to some band that Ashley swears is good and he rarely hears the songs like she does - but he tries.

For Ashley, Aiden tries harder than he does with anyone else.

Tries to be a bit more tough, tries to be a bit more funny, tries to be a bit more cool.  
Aiden tries to be a bit more of everything that Ashley values.  
He's been trying ever since the day she promised to keep a secret, when he was five - and it wasn't a lie, she kept quiet about that day and his red-faced shame.  
She's kept quiet about so many things, so many stupid and dreadful things.  
And so Aiden tries to be everything she could ever want.  
Because, at the end of the day, Ashley is all that he needs in this world.

But it's not love, you see... Not like that.  
He doesn't want her. He just needs her.  
He isn't in love with her. He just loves her.  
Talk around was that they were a couple and Aiden would just laugh, laugh and shake his head... Because how could anyone understand what they are?  
Best friends. Family. They are what blood wishes it could be, thicker and stronger than even a parent to a child...

That's what Ashley and Aiden are.

He smiles as he moves past the people in his house - cutting a path through the dancing and the drunk, the jealous boyfriends and the angry girlfriends, the lovers to be and the losers who can't get a single touch.  
And Aiden has not seen a pretty blonde come down the stairs, not a glance of the girl - of Spencer - for the past thirty minutes.  
Which can only mean good things for Ashley.  
And good things for him as well.

Good things like walking away from the madness of the downstairs, the speakers shaking the tables and knocking down the books that no one has ever read from their cases.  
Good things like opening the door and his eyes adjusting to the gentle light within the room, how soft it is against the black walls and the wooden floors, how inviting it is after being in all that blaring technicolor.  
Good things like the barest hint of sweat on a bare back, caught in that pale lamp light as the spine rolls and stiffens repeatedly and as strands of hay-colored hair flood down like a wave.  
Good things like how smooth Spencer's skin is against his palm, how she barely pauses at all to the sure brush of Aiden's skin against her own.

And Aiden puts the condom on. And Aiden moves as steady and slow as he can, his hands light upon Spencer's hips, almost as if he is trying to go unnoticed.  
Spencer inhales deeply, a second of adjustment, and then the breath rattles out again.  
And he pushes more, feeling the tightness surround him, and he thrusts so silently, so minutely.  
Like this is sacred, when it is anything but.  
Like this is meaningful, when he won't see Spencer after tonight.

But he is here to get off and that's all Aiden cares about.  
That's all these girls care about, the ones who come up here and decide to play.  
That's all Ashley cares about, too.

The only difference being that, when its all said and done, the girl will be gone.  
But Ashley and Aiden will still be here.  
Thicker than blood. Family. Best friends.

Always.

/ /

It wasn't so much that she was warned.  
It was more like she already knew.  
In the back of her mind, Spencer knew what would happen tonight.

Spencer knew that they would approach her and Spencer knew that she would agree to any terms the two of them set.  
Spencer knew that she'd do just about anything to get Ashley's hands on her.  
Because this night is about Ashley.  
How could it not be?  
Spencer has been admiring that girl for days and days, nights and nights. She's been tracking Ashley's walk and mirroring Ashley's grin at every party, teeth baring down onto her own bottom lip every time Ashley would draw near... but still pass Spencer by.  
And she's imagined the taste of Ashley's flesh.  
And she's conjured up visions of what Ashley's face might look like as the girl comes.  
And Spencer has had to clench her thighs together often over these past couple of weeks, saving up every bit of energy for the moment that Ashley Davies would finally choose her.

Yes, Spencer knew that they would approach her and Spencer knew that she would agree to any terms the two of them set.  
Spencer knew that she'd do just about anything to be up in that room tonight.  
Because this night is about so many other things, not just about a pretty brunette with a wicked touch.  
This night is about Paula Carlin, too.  
That bastion of good and that purveyor of religious righteousness, blonde hair so like the daughter she denies and demeans; eyes of blue, clear and bright and as hard as stone, the kind of eyes that make you feel small and worthless; a smile that cuts you if you try to return it, a smile that the daughter has perfected as well - sharp and cunning and unnaturally wise.  
Spencer's been watching her mother for far longer than any lovely girl, far longer than the girl beneath her right now.  
And she's imagined the fury that burns in Paula's gaze with every kiss bestowed.  
And she's conjured up visions of how Paula's face would contort with indignation and scandal every time that Spencer comes on some girl's fingers.  
And Spencer has had to hold her tongue and keep the words locked down tight, allowing only private smiles at the dinner table whenever her mother tries to ask a question or preach at her - a private smile that says so much more than words every could.

By the time Aiden gets there, by the time it becomes a threesome in every sense, Spencer is too far gone to care what he will do.  
Because she knew all about tonight.  
She knew what must be done and what must occur, she knew why her feet did not falter going up those steps.  
And once he is inside of her, once she is almost painfully filled up by the two of them, Spencer knows why she is here.  
And it's not for fucking. It's for forgetting.  
It's not for love. It's for loneliness.  
It's not for anything good at all.  
It's all for the bad - the bad in her and the bad in her mother and the bad that just won't go away.

And Spencer keeps telling herself that she is too far gone to care, too far gone to care about anyone or anything, too far gone for anything but fleeting moments like this one.  
Where attraction is tainted and lust is exploited, where there is no more Never-Never Land...

Just a child who cannot fly and keeps the windows shut at all times, just a silly and stupid child.

And it is just a moment, no more than that, but Spencer feels something crack inside of her heart and all the revenge in the world won't mend it.

/ /

That unsettled feeling does not dissipate, it only grows and grows and grows.  
Until it is overwhelming the barreling of desire in her stomach, until it is matching pull for pull with the orgasm she is holding off.  
Because she almost came before Aiden showed up.  
Ashley almost came, almost came **hard**, as Spencer rocked fitfully on top of her and Ashley could feel the friction on her clit from the harness and was bucking back just as dedicatedly - fingernails digging into Spencer's sides and gaze trailing over the girl's breasts as they bounced, both of them panting and Spencer's voice trickling out in oft-heard phrases.

But they sounded so good coming from Spencer's mouth.  
They really and truly did.  
Blue eyes squeezed shut and the palm of each hand wrapped securely around Ashley's shoulders, Spencer would groan out a string of encouragement and, every time, Ashley felt a tremor move through her own body.  
Those words sounded perfect coming from Spencer.

That unsettled feeling, though, it knocks on Ashley's brain like an unwelcome guest.  
It waved from somewhere in the distance as she walked across that floor and felt Spencer's breath upon her cheek the first time.  
It called out and it shouted when she held Spencer's hand and tugged the girl upstairs.  
It dialed up Ashley's number and left messages and it wrote letters, all while Ashley inhaled Spencer's feverish kisses and the two of them grinding against one another and they stopped the foreplay and clothes were removed as quickly as possible.  
That unsettled feeling showed up, unexpectedly and without warning, edging around this damn room like a thief - lurking as Ashley's hand slid down and cupped Spencer roughly, making the girl's moan sound like it had been ripped from her.  
As they crashed into each other, naked and hot and so damn impatient.  
As they touched and licked and Spencer jerked on Ashley's hair and Ashley heard the growl leave her own throat, heard the inferno of want in that animal sound, and it tore what little semblance of 'waiting' left completely away.

For the first time in a while, Ashley didn't remember what this room was for or who would be joining them later.  
For the first time in a long time, Ashley didn't remember Aiden.

All Ashley could see and hear and taste and feel was this girl, this girl named Spencer.

And the blonde didn't balk or look askance when Ashley pulled the harness up, didn't shy away or appear shocked as Ashley came closer, didn't do anything except give over a heavy gaze and a breathless sigh when Ashley rubbed the length of the dildo over Spencer's wetness.

There are a million ways to fuck.  
A million ways to create pleasure and to take what you want, a million ways to loose control, a million ways to connect with someone - for a minute, for an hour.  
Ashley doesn't believe in more than that.  
She doesn't believe in forever and love and marriage and someone to come home to.  
Love has limits, you know.  
Love can be taken back. Love can be a lie that others tell you, to try and con you, to try and placate you.  
Fucking has no limits, not in Ashley's eyes.  
It can be a new person every night. It can be a new position every time. Lights on or off. Inside or outside. Two people... or three... or more.  
And Ashley wants to believe in this one thing, just one thing to believe in and trust.  
But you lie when you fuck, too.

Maybe there's a million ways to lie.  
Maybe that's all there is. Maybe that's all anyone knows how to do.  
Even friends who know your life story, even friends who know parts of your soul.  
Even girls who know nothing about you, even girls who only know what you show them - and you only know what they show you.

There are a million ways to lie.  
And that's why, when the truth falls on you, you can't look away.  
And Ashley cannot look away.  
That unsettled feeling is no longer hovering in the shadows, it is by her side and it is on this bed and it is pounding inside her chest like a hammer.  
She knows Aiden is there, in the background, but Ashley isn't really registering the boy's presence. She isn't even fully aware of her own movements, the lift of her hips and then how they slowly go back down and repeat.

Ashley cannot look away from Spencer, cannot look away from those eyes that have opened - revealing the darkest of blues - and it is no longer just some girl being fucked. In those eyes of dusk, Ashley sees agony and it almost chokes her, almost slices her wide open.  
In those eyes, for just a moment and no more than that, Ashley sees every single inch of Spencer.

Her hands raise up, without meaning to, and Ashley feels the damp skin of Spencer's face and Ashley's lips part in a strangled whisper.

"It's okay..."

And Spencer freezes. And Ashley rocks her hips once more, going in deeper and staying there. And with her hands still holding Spencer's face, Ashley watches those blue eyes roll back and close.  
And Ashley breathing races as Spencer comes, as the girl releases a guttural wail and trembles and nearly collapses.

And Ashley comes.  
She comes hard.  
It has built and built and now it crashes down and it feels like it is killing her.

It feels so unsettled and so fucking perfect.

/ /

**TBC**


	9. memory nine

Nina was Marissa's cousin, with her cool as ice-water voice that would echo around the kitchen as Aiden flung his back-pack down and hurried upstairs - talking about this and that and Ashley didn't even pretend to hear him, didn't even pretend to care about Aiden's dissatisfaction with whatever grade he got or whatever other boy Aiden had a fight with.  
That voice always seemed to trip Ashley up, make her heart race and then stop... then start up again, beating faster each time and causing her head to swim, causing her eyelids to blink rapidly.

Ashley was twelve when she discovered how much she truly liked girls.  
And that was also when she discovered how much she feared girls, too.

Nina, with her dirty-blonde hair and inviting smile, didn't treat Aiden like a child under foot. She'd ask him about his day and he'd grin, but blush, even at an age where blushing was a detriment and not cute at all.  
Ashley didn't think it was cute. In fact, Ashley used to really dislike seeing that happen.  
She'd get embarrassed for her friend.  
But, more than that, she'd get jealous of him.  
And she **hated **feeling jealous at all, so she would feign disinterest in whatever the boy might suggest for fun and go home in a huff - slamming her bedroom door and kicking the finely painted walls, frustrated in a thousand ways that she could barely make sense of.

All because she liked girls. All because she liked Nina.  
All because she was afraid of girls. All because she was afraid of Nina.

Nina, with the way she'd lightly run her fingers over Ashley's hair and say _'it's so pretty, just like a picture'_. And something inside of Ashley would simultaneously spark to life and die on the vine - she didn't know how to respond and she didn't know how to walk away.  
Nina's simple little touch scared Ashley, worse than any horror film filled with killers and knives. And Nina's touch brought such undeniable heat to Ashley's body, every corner and every inch flooded with a warmth that no blanket or scalding shower could recreate.  
And Ashley liked it, she really did. She craved Nina's attention like ghosts long for a home to haunt.  
And Ashley couldn't stand it, she really couldn't. She would hide away from not only Nina, but from Aiden and Marissa and the whole damn Dennison house.

Ashley was twelve when she discovered what it was like want someone.  
And that was also when she discovered what it was like to run from wanting anyone.

And though she didn't know it at the time, that last fact was the most pivotal one of all.

/ /

"There's a shower and towels and everything, if you'd like to use it...?"  
"No. That's okay."  
"You sure?"  
"Yea. Yea, I'm fine."  
"Oh, okay... Well, this was nice... right?"

Aiden's voice sounds unsure and, while he might not be a genius underneath all that brand-name clothing, Aiden is more perceptive than others would give him credit for.  
Sometimes he is more perceptive than even Ashley would give him credit for.

But Ashley's head is swimming. And every breath she tries to take just seems to hurt, seems to get lodged between her throat and her chest, a fistful of reluctant air.  
And Ashley doesn't want to think of why she is feeling like this, why those unsettled sensations continue to crawl all over her half-dressed body, why she reached up to cradle Spencer's face and did not want to let go.

It terrifies her. It terrifies her like nothing else in this world.

"It was... It was good."

Spencer's voice sounds blank, the equivalent of a sheet of paper with no words and no lines, just completely empty.  
And Aiden is made slightly uncomfortable by it.  
And Ashley is rendered motionless by it, unable to look at Spencer's face full-on - catching it now in quick glances and nothing more. She doesn't even attempt to look into those eyes, fearful of seeing a vast void to match the tone of Spencer's voice... even more fearful of seeing too much again, of seeing the depths of this girl's soul again.

It terrifies her. It fucking terrifies her.  
And Ashley steps past both of them, finding her shirt and pulling it back on.  
And she doesn't listen as Aiden says good-bye, as he passes on his meaningless kiss to Spencer's lips, as he shuts the door and Spencer leaves just like every other girl before her.

But there, in the swirling ocean of her mind, Ashley is still on that bed and Spencer is still on top of her and there isn't an Aiden or a party downstairs.  
It's just two people. It's just the two of them.  
It's just Ashley and just Spencer.  
There, in the recesses of Ashley's psyche, is all she has been fleeing from.

All that she might want, walking down those steps and never to be seen again.

/ /

**TBC**


	10. memory ten

The house is quiet as she shuts the front door, rooms lost in shadow as she walks through the foyer and into the kitchen.  
She knows every curve of this place, has learned how to move about in the darkness - where the table corner juts out and how to slide to the left to avoid a bruise, where to stop as she nears the counter and not slam her foot into anything hard.  
She can find the handle to the refrigerator, knows to pull on it quick to actually lessen the sound it will make.

And there, bathed in a white light, Spencer's stares into the cool interior.  
Just stares and stares.  
Until she notices twin points of heat along her face, cutting a path all their own and getting chilled by the time they reach her chin - from hot to cold, from alive to dead.  
And Spencer squeezes her eyes shut tightly, squeezes them so much that pressure builds and colors leap forth under the eye-lids, squeezes those eyes shut until they ache.

But there is an ache even deeper.  
There is a wound, left to fester so long ago, and she can never seem to staunch the flow of blood... Spencer just feels her existence drifting away, bit by bit, day after day.

"Two in the morning is **way** past your curfew."

And the mask comes back down oh so swiftly when the over-head light pops on, as if tears never fell and as if scars were just recollections - not real, not present - and Spencer doesn't reply to her mother's voice behind her. She reaches in and grabs the carton of orange juice, pouring herself a full glass and lazily drinking it down.

"I hope you know that this will mean you are not only grounded for the remainder of the weekend, but all during the week as well."

Spencer sets the glass down in the sink and finally turns around, smiling placidly and crossing her arms, mimicking her mother's pose from the entrance-way.  
Blue eyes. Blonde hair. Apathetic, but only so far - they care too much, they hurt each other too much... Everything about them is too much, that's why her father sticks to his study and why her brother keeps his nose clean.  
No one wants to be caught up in this, expect mother and daughter.

"And you'll also be joining us at church later today, no matter how tired you are... Am I making myself** clear**?"

And Spencer grits her teeth. And Spencer digs her nails, subtly, into her palms. And, within her bones, Spencer seethes.  
But then she thinks of her night, thinks of the boy she let inside her - who she let fuck her the only place left untouched - and she thinks of the girl that laid beneath her, who stripped her down and made her come so intensely that she felt like passing out...

Spencer thinks of this and it calms her down.  
It gives her the upper-hand in this hidden war. It gives her ammunition, the kind that can kill without actually taking a life.

"**Crystal** clear, Paula."

And Spencer brushes by her mother, takes her time going up the stairs and to her bedroom.  
And Spencer doesn't clean up, doesn't wipe away the dried sweat or the vague stickiness on the inside of her thighs - she leaves it all there, ready to wear it to mass right along with her dress, ready to milk this night for all it is worth as she sits in the pew and listens to bigotry disguised as love.

Ready to ruin her mother with it.

Not caring that it is ruining herself as well.

/ /

**TBC**


	11. memory eleven

Somewhere, in that mist within her mind, she remembers more than this.  
More than cold stares and more than cutting words, more than doors that slam and more than actions that can never be taken back.

Somewhere, there is a little girl and her hand is being held as she walks along the long red strip of carpet, right up to that altar - mouth opening wide to receive Christ, his body and his blood.  
Somewhere, there is a little girl who skips to the pew and sits on her mother's lap.  
And, somewhere, that little girl can smell her mother's perfume - never cloying, but terribly sweet - and can recall a kiss pressed to the top of a baby-soft blonde head of hair.

Somewhere, that actually happened.

But Spencer blinks and loses it all again.

/ /

Aiden is making promises to everyone and suggesting girls to Ashley, all with an eager grin - which is nothing new, for this guy is in his element now.  
No longer shy or slightly gawky, as he was until just a couple of years ago. No longer stumbling over his own attractive appearance, that over-night switch from long legs and shaggy hair to muscles that have shape and a five o'clock shadow.  
With these parties, Aiden shape-shifts from a wounded child right into a glossy man - model made clothes and sure words.

Certainly not a boy who had accidents, certainly not a boy who blushed around girls.

Certainly not a boy who has been roughed up at home.

But it is all a facade.  
And Aiden knows it, when his head lays down and he tries to sleep and finds that he can't stomach the darkness in his room still.  
And Ashley knows it, when she says she is going to her place, but she doesn't and drives around all night and drinks more than she should while behind the wheel.

Everyone here is hiding something.  
An insecurity. A fetish. A bad side. A world of hurt.  
And it's only when you look that you can catch it - that split second of revelation - the moment where someone puts all their cards on the table, even if they didn't mean to.

Ashley knows that Spencer didn't mean to.  
Spencer isn't the kind of girl to do such a thing, because there is something shattered in those blue eyes and girls like that don't admit to anything.  
They blow in and they breeze back out. They don't stick around.  
Everyone else is looking for more.  
Spencer is looking for less.  
Ashley has looked for less, too. She knows what that kind of searching does to a soul.

But Spencer didn't mean to give up anything, you know... Ashley **knows** this.

And there is a woman in front of Ashley and she is gorgeous and she is completely fucked up. And Aiden is whispering things into this woman's ear and she is smiling so stupidly in response.  
And Ashley feels the music as it pushes against the walls. And she smells the sweat of every person in this modern den of inequity.  
And past that, probably only ten feet away, is the spinning body of a girl that Ashley shouldn't even be looking at, shouldn't even be thinking about, shouldn't even give a damn about.

Drunk. Dancing. Pushing off of one girl and onto another. Being kissed. Being touched.

And, one by one, the cards come down.

And Ashley doesn't want to be the one to see them.  
But she cannot find the will to turn away.

/ /

**TBC**


	12. memory twelve

If she had been looking for it, she would have never found it.  
Not in a million years.  
But the things you keep covered up have a way of slipping out, they slither from under the door and they sneak over to those you try to shield.

To shield, though, implies a sense of protection - to keep one safe, to spare someone the pain of the truth.  
And Ashley, if she talked to her father anymore, would tell him that he gloriously failed to do any of those things.  
And Ashley, if she talked to Christine anymore, would admit to understanding the indifference now, to understanding the coldness now.

Those are confessions that Ashley will never make, though.

The two of them, adult in age alone, don't need to know how easily they have dismantled a version of reality and left it in ruins.  
They don't need to know how badly they have fucked up everything - the photographs in the album, the faces around the dinner table, the name on a child's lips when the nightmares come...

They don't need to know just how well one lie can destroy the world.

/ /

The lights run together and everyone will tell you that it is prettier that way.  
Blur the business buildings and catch the head-lights at warp speed, all of that makes the city look like a work of art instead of the industrial wasteland it truly is.

It works if you get trashed, too.

She thinks it looks pretty damn nice, the red and the black with every blink of her eyes.  
And the air is cool against her hot skin.  
And there is a hand pulling at the collar of her shirt, stretching it further than the material is meant to be stretched, then lips kissing and then lips sucking.

Spencer hopes the purple mark is massive. She hopes it stands out, a trumpet's call at dawn.

And there is a hand rough upon her thigh, pushing up this skirt, taking whatever it wants.  
But it isn't taking anything that Spencer hasn't given up before.

The lights are pretty, though.  
And she blinks. And they blur.  
And she'd laugh at this girl, because she has not a bit of ability or a shred of charm - but this isn't about sex.

It's about rage.  
It's about lines in the sand.  
It's about games.  
It's about all the things that are kept quiet.

/ /

"Okay, what's up? You have shot down **every **girl tonight."  
"Because none of them are interesting tonight."  
"Then why are we having the party?"  
"Look, what's the big **fucking** deal, Aiden? It'll just be a stupid party this time. You won't **die** if we don't fuck some girl tonight, will you?"

He is good at reading her moods.  
If she is angry, her jaw-line goes rigid. If she is amused, she likes to rough house. If she is pleased, her smile goes lazy and slowly spreads out. If she is tired, she'll snap a person's damn head off.  
There are years under his belt, studying his best friend in order to always know his best friend - the girl he has called up almost every night since the day they met, the two of them talking trash to each other and trading dares when the truths became too hard to handle

Tonight, though, something new stalks the landscape of Ashley's face.  
And Aiden realizes this, even with alcohol swimming in his bloodstream, he recognizes a different shadow in Ashley's eyes.  
And, right now, Aiden suddenly feels left behind and it scares him like nothing else and the boy he used to be still has that hand out there - pinkie offered to a brown haired girl, in the sunlight, desperate for someone to care and to mean it.

They made a promise that day. They made a pact.

"Hey, no need to jump down my throat, Ash... It'll just be a regular party. It's **fine**."

And he watches her take a long sip of beer. And he watches her shoulders lower as if coming down from a battle, as if returning from a war she didn't win.

"...You want me to get rid of everyone? We can kick them out and just, I don't know, watch some shitty movie. Or go downstairs, play some pool... Whatever you like, okay?"

And those eyes turn to him, looking defeated and tired.  
And, for split second, Aiden wonders if the casualty of this unknown conflict will be him.  
But no, that won't happen. Not to the two of them.  
Mothers who hurt you and fathers who ignore you and kids that mock you and teachers that don't give a shit - they will fall by the wayside.  
But not the two of them.

They've made so many promises. They've made so many pacts.

"I just need to go and clear my head. We'll hang out tomorrow... alright?"  
"Uh, yea. Okay. Sure."

And Aiden keeps hoping that Ashley will turn around and take him with her, as she has always done, turning back and calling him forth and forcing his steps even if his feet were unsure.

But no, that doesn't happen this time.

And, right now, Aiden suddenly remembers what it feels like to be forgotten.

/ /

**TBC**


	13. memory thirteen

Spencer doesn't want to belong anywhere.

But that's just a speech for the mirror, the one she looks in every morning - pressed and perfect - and the one she looks in every night - eyes bloodshot and buttons undone.

Spencer doesn't want to fake everything.

But that's just a notion, not a truth. She'll falsify all the words from her lips and she'll smile when all she wants to do is frown - she is a master of deception.

Spencer doesn't want to slip up now, not after spending so long crafting and building this wall around her body - touched but never claimed.  
Around her heart - a disappearing fairy tale trapped in her chest.  
Around her life - just a bit of fiction, just a bit of a tragedy.

But her foot is skidding to a halt and the ground is not as sure as it once was.  
And slipping up is a little too easy when you blind yourself to the perils of falling.  
Slipping up can only be accomplished if you believe your own hype.

/ /

Spencer doesn't like these parties. She has reached the top of the ladder, that spot that so many others wish to get to - that room, with its bed and a girl and a guy.  
And she's told no one, but Carmen gives her these funny looks now.  
Like the sheen of simplicity has tumbled down, the princess revealed to be an animal after-all.

Carmen snatches the beer from Spencer's hands and doesn't respond to the semi-pout, semi-glare that Spencer directs her way.  
Carmen is being a good friend. Carmen is still trying to understand this blonde hell bent on destruction.

And Spencer would tell her to give up. If she gave a damn at all.

"C'mon, Spence, let's get out of here... This is, like, the fifth night we've been here."  
"And go **where**? This is the only night-life around."  
"We live in the **city**, Spencer. There is tons of shit to do."  
"Yea, yea, yea... I want my beer back."  
"I thought you didn't drink unless nervous...?"

And the ground shifts and slants just a bit more.  
Because Spencer doesn't remember telling Carmen that fact at all.  
And she wonders what other secrets have come out, spoken in some drunken stupor or actions seen because they were too obvious.

Spencer doesn't want to be figured out. Not by anyone.

"Whatever. I'll just get another."

Shutting Carmen out isn't hard to do.  
Spencer just walks away, legs less than steady but a head full of distance, and she just walks away from a voice in the background.  
Walking away isn't hard to do, either.

Spencer just turns and goes.

/ /

A hundred hands on her.  
And she doesn't feel a thing.  
Maybe she feels the wall against her back. Maybe, if her eyes open, she sees a mass of hair and flesh before her face.

But as quick as it comes, it is gone again.

And there is an ache, so painful and so strong, within her gut and it stabs at her like a knife.  
And it twists. And it pushes in deeper.

"Let's go... Can you walk?"

A pair of hands on her.  
And she doesn't want to feel a thing.  
But, maybe, she feels the heat of this tender hold. Maybe, if her eyes were to open, she would see a reluctant witness with a familiar face.

But Spencer can barely nod her head, can barely move at all.

And there is an ache.  
God, there is an ache and it is tearing her apart.

And she slips those final steps, she slips up and crashes and she'll surely burn.

/ /

Spencer doesn't want to be caught.

But there are arms, tonight, who catch her.

/ /

**TBC**


	14. memory fourteen

She shouldn't be awake, but she cannot sleep.

But it's not her fault, not when it is the 25th of December.  
And it is still dark outside, but she has waited long enough - time to creep out of her bed, with flashlight held tightly in her tiny hands, and see if she can beat Glen to the tree this year.

He is always up first, smirking at her from his pile of presents and already drinking a mug of hot-chocolate.  
And she doesn't know why this bugs her so much, but it does.  
So, Spencer is going to beat him to the punch this year.

She shouldn't be up at all, but it's Christmas and she wants to be the first one downstairs this time. Her steps are light and she holds her breath, going past her parents bedroom door with wide eyes. The shadows move along the wall, caught in the beams from her bright yellow flashlight, and picture frames stretch and her own silhouette goes for miles.

It makes her giggle. And the giggle makes her hurry, fearful of being found out.

But it's not Spencer's fault.  
She just wants to show her older brother that she is something pretty cool, too.  
She just wants to see how many gifts have her name upon them.  
She wants to see that empty plate, the one that was once filled up with cookies she helped her mother bake, and she wants to see that empty glass as well, milk long gone.

Spencer gets on her hands and knees once she is in the living room, sitting the flashlight down, and she plugs in the lights on the tree.  
And there is that empty plate and glass.  
There are those gifts, so many with her name, of every shape and size.

And she is the only one seeing this moment.  
There is no Glen boasting off to the side. Not even her mother and father are around, with their familiar smiles and sweet hugs.  
Just Spencer, standing back in the twinkling glow of a hundred colors, a beautiful haze descending over her eight year old form.

She shouldn't be awake, but she cannot sleep.

But it's not her fault.  
Not when she can see something so amazing.

/ /

Spencer shouldn't be awake, but she cannot sleep.

And it's all her own fault.

She would almost rather be sick to her stomach, would almost rather bolt away and throw up all of last night and be done with it.  
Her body isn't used to this much drinking, rebelling against her and chastising her with every agonizing beat behind her eyes.

Eyes that wish they had stayed closed.  
Eyes that wish they had never strayed.  
Eyes that wish they had never said a damn thing.

But, instead of staggering up and slinking away - just like a one night stand, just like all those slurs in the locker room - Spencer blinks and stares.  
Stares at these sheets around her, not able to fathom the hues in this quiet nighttime.  
And she stares at the outlines of things - a desk, a chair, vague hints of someone's life.

Spencer blinks. Spencer stares.

She stares at a bare leg, the way it is bent at the knee, and it looks really smooth.  
And it probably is. Which is a lie, wrapped up in a truth.  
Spencer **knows **that that leg is smooth.  
And she blinks. And she stares.  
Spencer stares at this girl on the floor, hair perfectly fanned out and blanket resting at the hips and a million different details shown whenever the clouds pass outside.

Lips parted. A sliver of stomach. Head one way, arms another.  
And the floor cannot be comfortable.  
And Spencer is still clothed.  
And the early portion of the evening is a badly drawn blur.

But Spencer just blinks and stares at Ashley.  
She stares until it hurts and that's when she should go, that's when she should disappear, that's when she should cut and run.

It's all her own fault, though.

Because, in the end, she does none of those things.

/ /

**TBC**


	15. memory fifteen

**Ah, yes. I removed a chapter. And am taking a break, I think, from all writing. Just for a bit. Need to regroup.**

/ /

He could swim, just not that well.  
And it wasn't his legs, for they would kick and push. And it wasn't his arms, for they would crest and dip back down with ease.

It was a strange and wicked fear that lived in his chest, an erratic beat that he could not keep up with, begging him to keep his head always above the water.

And all those games that kids play, at pool parties that his parents would throw - for his birthday, but it was really just a chance to show off that new car, that new painting, that child they don't talk to - Aiden avoided all those games.  
He'd eat cake and he'd open gifts and he'd get sunburned as he sat on the concrete, watching other children jump into the chlorine-scented waves and start up Marco Polo.  
Or, the one he hated the most, tossing coins to the bottom of the pool for others to fetch.  
He tried to fake it once - eyes shut as he haphazardly dived in and that penny was lost and he hit his elbow into the wall, drawing blood.

The embarrassment was worse, though.  
A scab on the skin is simple to mend.  
A wound on young pride is painfully complex.

It never fully heals.  
It taunts when all the other voices fade.  
It haunts you when all the other monsters are laid to rest.

/ /

There is a stupid hickey on his neck and that reminds him of school, of classes that he somehow passes, of girls who want to date him and hold his hand and who want to lose something precious to him.

But the lips that sucked until they caused bruising did not belong to a virgin.  
And he is not a boyfriend to any girl.

Aiden runs a hand over his face as he stumbles from his room, the light on in his bathroom and the bedroom door ajar. There are no sounds of Marissa and, still, he will find his ears trying to catch the woman's movements around this rambling house.  
It's a bad habit.  
It's an old habit.  
It's a habit he cannot seem to break.

And it's in these moments, the break of day and no one else around, that Aiden wants more.  
More love. More affection. More friends. More chances. More family.

But that longing is just a habit, too.  
An old habit. A bad habit.  
One that he doesn't know how to break.

And it's in these moments, where he comes dangerously close to feelings better left for dead, that Aiden needs Ashley.  
Needs to call the girl up. Needs to hear her talk about anything at all. Needs to know what she has planned for the two of them. Needs to know that he is at the top of her list, always.

It's a habit.  
One that he just cannot break.

/ /

"It's not hard, just** do it**."  
"I don't want to..."  
"Don't be such a** baby**, Aiden!"  
"_Ash_..."  
"God, I'll do it with you, okay?"

He is scared. He is almost shaking, but tries to keep that fact hidden.  
The flimsy facade of him being brave is quickly falling down and to tremble in the face of his best friend - that would just be suicidal. To be this weak at the age of eleven is not cool, not at all.

Ashley bobs up and pinches her nose and slips away, just below the water, with her hair going every which way and the vision of her open eyes like dark ripples.  
But as Aiden hesitates, she pops back up with a glare.

"I swear, if you don't do this, I'll never talk to you again!"

And it is as stern as any cold warning from his mother, but causes him even more fear.  
Because his mother has broken him, has numbed him to cruelty.  
But Ashley, though he didn't know it at the time, was piecing him back together.  
And the terror of losing her was enough to make him do the impossible.

"One..."

And he took a deep breath.

"...Two..."

And he bounced up on his tip-toes.

"...Three!"

And he is submerged and frightened and his arms flail some, but Ashley is tapping at his shoulder. She's not letting him go. She's not letting him chicken out.  
Aiden opens his eyes, slowly, and he sees Ashley looking back at him, grinning and waving.

He slams his eyes shut again.  
It is a start, though.  
Being afraid of this is just a habit, after-all.  
Just a silly and dumb thing and Aiden won't always be so timid or so nervous, won't always need Ashley to pick him up and make him move, won't always be dictated to by his fears.

Aiden won't always be the one left behind.

/ /

**TBC**


	16. memory sixteen

**Hmm. Small break. I just don't know... I think my muse is teasing me.**

/ /

But the calls do not get answered this day.  
And there is not a wave or a grin from underwater.

Aiden looks around this empty house, shoes near the front door and a broken vase and stains that he'll pay someone to clean up and a thousand memories made up of a thousand faces, and it is the lack of his best friend that he feels the most.

/ /

She sat just outside the door, holding her breath.  
And then she ran, fast down the stairs, not caring what her father or what Christine might make of the stranger sleeping in her bed.

It'd be one thing to say 'fuck it, let them think what they want' because she is so hard.  
So hard and so arrogant and so jaded.  
It'd be one thing she could live with, if she weren't fleeing her own bedroom and rushing from her own house...  
But it's another thing entirely.

And Ashley doesn't like what it is.  
Or what it might be.

When sun hit her face and knocked away sleep, the first thing she saw was the landscape of the floor - magazines and the top half to outfits, album covers and an old bottle that probably still carried the scent of peppermint to it.  
That was from New Year's Eve.  
That was from Aiden and the boy laughed as he dipped candy-canes into the alcohol and they both got trashed.

He tried to kiss her at midnight.  
And she smacked him.  
But they were drunk, so it was all good with the morning.

Unlike this morning, with a stiff back and a stuttering rhythm within her chest - signaling fear and alerting her to danger.  
Danger like a girl in her bed. Danger like Spencer in her bed.

And it'd be one thing if they had fucked again, if Ashley had placed her hand over this new and terrifying internal voice - told it to shut up and play nice - and if the two of them had just fooled around, she could have lived with that.  
But it wasn't that at all.  
It was something else.

Ashley stood up and looked down at the blonde girl, allowed herself a wondrous and horrible minute to stare - to see the slope of a cheek, to see the ruin of hair upon the pillow, to see where fingers loosely grip the comforter, to see a glimpse of something so revolutionary in the guise of a slumbering hangover waiting to happen.

And then she stepped out of her room.  
And she sat down, knees to her chest, and held her breath until it hurt.

And then Ashley ran.

/ /

"...Hello? Who's there?"

She stumbles a bit, hand on the door knob, as the sound of walking gets closer.  
And a man looks at her curiously, eyebrow raised in question.

Spencer's head hurts. And her stomach is pitching like the ocean, waves of nausea.  
She woke up confused, too.  
At where she was, but soon she remembered. And when she remembered, Spencer looked to the floor - devoid of a sleeping brunette.  
And then it settled in a little more, that confusion, not because she expected anyone to be there and to explain the night away like a bad dream.  
Spencer was confused as to why she stayed at all.  
Why did she let someone tug her along and why did she let someone put her to bed like a child? Why would anyone sleep on floor so that she didn't have to? Why was it** this **person in particular - Ashley of the threesome, Ashley of the hidden room, Ashley with those dark eyes and devastating strut - why did Ashley do any of this?

And why did Spencer let her?

But she was drunk. _So very drunk_. And she was out of it, too. _So very out of it_.  
She was bored and on edge and annoyed with Carmen.  
She was tired of the party. She was tired, in general. _So very tired_.

"Just a friend of Ashley's. Didn't mean to disturb you."

Spencer can turn on that charm like others turn on a faucet.  
Even with her head in a million pieces. Even with her body wanting to tilt and fall over.  
Years of practice have gone into her ability to fake everything.

This is no exception.

"Oh. Well, nice to meet you...?"  
"I've, uh, really got to go. Late for a family thing."

No one here needs to know her name, after all.  
She won't be coming back any time soon.

/ /

**TBC**


	17. memory seventeen

She leaves the phone in her car, flashing lights from a well-known name ignored.  
And, tomorrow, she'll make it up to Aiden.  
Tomorrow, everything will be okay again.

That's the plan, anyway.  
That's always been the plan.

Just make it to tomorrow.

/ /

_And where will she be when tomorrow comes?_

Ashley sits there, stunned in her sixteen year old skin, thinking that there was little left to shock her in this world.  
She was already a little wild. She was already a little blunt.  
And she always knew that something was off, but she thought it was by inches - not miles.

But there, in her hands, was the longest distance between what she had been raised to believe and what was the truth.  
There in her hands was a name she did not know, attached to her blood - claws finally shown - and suddenly a piece of the puzzle fell into place.

And it ripped the past to shreds.  
And it turned the present into a joke.

And Ashley didn't know if tomorrow would really come at all.

It wasn't until she was drunk, worse than any time before or since, dragging her body into Aiden's kitchen and into the bright lights as his worried gaze took her in.  
The boy, still there in that grown-up form, held her by the shoulders - so tender, so understanding, her best friend since she was five - there he was, saying her name in a quiet voice.

"What time is it?" She slurred out.  
"It's late. **Really** late... what's going on, Ash?"

And she meant to say something about making it, about surviving a storm, about barely standing - but still upright.  
But it came out as something else all together.

"It's all a lie... Everything is a **fucking** lie..."

/ /

After one in the morning, Ashley stops the pretense of prowling and sets her sights upon this one girl.  
This girl and her swaying hips and the sweat on her brow, just looking for a good time, and Ashley knows all about this girl.  
This girl is every other girl before her. This girl is every other girl that will come after.

Her green eyes are hazy and probably medicated, probably just brown on the weekdays, but her hands know their way around Ashley's back and her fingers know how to slide past the waist of Ashley's jeans and her lips know how to stay silent against Ashley's skin.

Just looking to fuck around. Just looking to lose herself. Just looking for a bit of fun.  
Yea, Ashley knows all about this girl.

She knows about that brick wall and the delicious push of it into flesh, cold stone pressed to the heat, a demanding thigh rocking between her legs.  
She knows about the zipper pulled roughly down and teeth sinking in, groans lost in the music and in the vagueness of this contact and in the smoke that surrounds them.  
She knows about orgasms that bubble up and shudder out, about tongues shoved so far in that it feels like you can't breathe at all.  
She knows about thrusting and grinning and a moment of blissful ignorance with a stranger.

It may not be as good as it can be, but it's better than striving for something better.  
Something brief, but amazing. Something painful, but real.

And the kiss lingers too long on her cheek, so Ashley steps away and wipes her hand on the back of her pants. Ignores the supposedly sexy talk. Ignores the angry shout.  
Ignorance is a wonderful thing, really and truly.  
Besides physical pleasure, it is the only thing that Ashley wishes to keep in her life.

That's the plan, anyway.  
That's always been the plan.

/ /

It just doesn't always work out.

/ /

**TBC**


	18. memory eighteen

That kiss is everything a kiss shouldn't be, not for her and not for her lips.

It is not a prelude to something else, in that second, it is not the first touch that sends one spiraling into the familiar.  
It is a kiss that speaks of starting, of shocked wanting, of terrible and lovely knowledge found where it is least expected - in a place of warm shadows and the whole building thrumming with sound and the whisper of breath way too close.

They are way too close to one another.

And this kiss is too sweet, too deadly, too heavy with what will never be said and what will never be admitted.

It slides under Spencer's skin like the point of a knife.

/ /

Carmen is shaking her head, mournful and hurt.  
And Spencer can't care about that.  
She's done with caring.

But she doesn't look in the mirror when she leaves the bathroom, other girls in there applying make-up and sneaking cigarettes, paying no mind to two people no longer meeting up in the middle.  
She doesn't want to see the reflection of her own cruelty. Not today.  
And it's Carmen's fault - for wanting to be a shoulder, for wanting to shake Spencer until one of them wakes up, for actually thinking they were friends.  
Girls who braid hair. Girls who pop bubble-gum and laugh. Girls who whisper about dark and dangerous secrets.

Spencer never told Carmen a thing, kept it simple and that was keeping it kind - really and honestly kind - because Carmen lives in a nice world.  
With parents who adore and don't condemn, Carmen lives in a wonderful world, the one that Spencer lost years ago.

And there she is, Paula, flashing in Spencer's head - looming and lurking and pushing and sneering - and Spencer is eager to leave this school.  
So she does. And she roams so recklessly down the hallways, ignoring bells and the crush of students. She careens into the parking lot, breathing hard, like she has been running for miles and miles and miles.

But she has. But she is.

Running and running like there is no tomorrow.

And she prays to a God she hates that that sentiment is true.

/ /

"Hey, I tried to reach you yesterday."  
"No shit, Aiden. What was that... fifty missed calls?"

She smiles, though, to take away the sting. But Ashley is not sure it works.  
She is used to reading his face, knowing when he is holding back anger and when he is about to break. She's been the keeper of his emotions and she isn't sure how that task became hers at all.

But they made a promise, a long time ago.  
The kind of promise that friends make to each other when they've got no one else.

Ashley may be living in the realm of indifference, but she never wants to wound Aiden.  
But her own actions are suspect these days and that worries her.  
It keeps her up at night. It keeps her to the clubs, later and later. It keeps her from parties that might lure a girl she doesn't want to see anymore.

"Whatever. Are you okay?"  
"Yea, I'm good. Just needed some time to myself."  
"For what?"  
"Nothing, Aiden. Leave it... okay?"

His eyes are so deep, scanning her face in an attempt to figure her out. And, normally, she'd let him. Everyone else is so far from her now, but not Aiden.  
She's never shut him out or locked him away from her feelings, even when she wasn't sure she could feel **anything** - all those moments were open to her best friend.  
Her best friend, who knows when to joke and knows when to stay quiet, who knows when to push and when to hold back.

But he looks confused.  
Which is no surprise.  
Because Ashley is confusing herself as well.

He nods his head, though. And Ashley sighs in relief, shoving away the sensation of dread in her bones, starting up a conversation about going out and goofing around.  
And the boy agrees, like always. And still, there in his gaze, is the concerned wondering.  
There in Aiden's gaze is the acknowledgment that something is changing.

And he doesn't like it.  
And, really, neither does Ashley.

/ /

It's not what she wanted to do, but her mind screams for caution and her body aches for contact and the conflict is drown out once fantasy becomes reality.

Their eyes met, reluctantly. But not reluctantly enough. That's the problem.  
And Ashley looks around, almost guiltily, for Aiden and is glad to see him getting some action across the way - lost in the mix of people, a woman grinding hard against him and slender fingers going through his hair, pairing up as easily as anyone else in this place.

And the girl she is dancing with is forgotten, even as her ass pushes into Ashley's crotch and makes demands and swears upon anything just for a touch.  
But Ashley's eyes are fixed on a certain point and it hurts to look away and it kills her that she won't just blink and break it all off.

Blue eyes are looking right back, though.

That's the problem.  
That's the fucking problem, right from the start, seeing more than needed to be seen and catching a glimpse of more than just sex and just a face with no name.

And, somewhere along the way, Ashley walks away from the woman begging and is moving past these so-called dancers and is watching a blonde-haired girl as she slides against delicate curves, as Spencer taunts with just the roll of her hips in the flashing of light and dark.

Because it feels like taunting. It feels like teasing. It feels like a challenge. It feels like a game. It feels like something, something so wrong and so right and so painful and so perfect.

It feels like the whole universe is ending.

/ /

Somehow, Ashley is kissing her.  
And it is too nice. Too lovely. Too much of something that cannot ever be.

And Spencer's voice is steady, but her hand is gripping the material of Ashley's top like it is the only thing keeping her standing.

"I think you and I could have some fun."  
"Yea?"

Ashley's lips are still too close, still too intimate, still just a breath away from claiming what Spencer never offered.  
At least, not willingly. And images come rushing forth, of a flushed face below and a stare taking her in. And recollections stagger up, of a girl suddenly broken and someone wanting to fix it all - in a moment, in one single moment - someone wanted to mend her without needing to know the reasons why.

And that's too nice for Spencer. That's too lovely and too much for Spencer.  
And it always will be.

"We could be friends... of a sort. We could have a good time, if you want, Ashley..."

/ /

And Spencer runs for miles and miles.  
And Ashley keeps on pretending she can keep up.

/ /

"...I want."

/ /

**TBC**


	19. memory nineteen

Her father, sweet as pie, but he is about as useful as hot breeze on a blistering summer day - he is the kind of man you cannot help but love.  
And he is the kind of man you cannot help but hate.  
His kisses, the ones that used to grace her forehead, were always cherished.  
Tiny bits of love, made smaller so that they fit her tiny bit of a body, and she used to cherish each and every one.  
Carried them in her pocket. Smiled about them during grape-juice lunches and playground antics. Let them softly lull her to sleep at night.

Her father, gentle as a lamb, easily slaughtered.

He doesn't kiss her forehead anymore. And she wonders, sometimes, if he even recognizes her at all.  
Do those kind eyes glaze over as she walks by, asking silently who this young woman is in his home? Does his face fall once he remembers and realizes that he cannot forget?

Does he look at Spencer the way that Spencer looks at him?

You cannot help but love.  
And you cannot help but hate.

/ /

Spencer isn't sure of how they got here. But, of course, it doesn't matter.  
All that matters is the hand between her legs, how well it moves and how sure it feels.

It feels like the only reality that Spencer wants to know.

/ /

And she wonders how two people can be the same thing, but neither want to claim the title.  
How can someone go through all of that - the months without drinking and smoking, no running down a flight of stairs, getting sick in the morning and gaining weight - how can someone go through all of that and still turn around and give it all away?

Why go through with it at all?

Is it for the man that you can't have - that guy who smiled at you and seemed great and you loved him more than anyone and you wished that you had met him a thousand years ago, before he had already found someone else, before he had taken vows and swore to be the husband to a wife - is it for the man who you knew you'd **never** have?

Either way she cut it, love came up as the loser.  
Love made her father cheat, love made her father lie. Love made Christine hang on tight, love made Christine bitter. Love made a stranger act rash, love made a stranger out of a mother.

Either way, Ashley came up the loser.

/ /

Thank god this isn't about love. Thank god this isn't about anything more than sensation and ecstasy and getting lost while you get sweaty.  
It's just two people. Two people making up new rules, but with the same intention as all the old rules - pleasure at all costs and don't get involved.

Ashley trusts the slick heat against her hand more than anything else.

/ /

Even so, Spencer keeps her eyes closed this time.  
And even if they were open, Ashley keeps her face turned away.

/ /

**TBC**


	20. memory twenty

Just the back of her head, going around the corner, barely seen as his eyes open slowly and some girl's tongue leaves his mouth.  
And it could be a mirage, because he has had a drink or two. Or more.  
And it could be a mirage, but Aiden knows that it isn't.

Aiden knows just who is sneaking away tonight.

/ /

She waited for as long as she could, Aiden knows that.  
And his sweaty palms slipped upon the window sill and the lower half of his body didn't want to move, half in and half out of the bedroom, and a good ten foot drop below.

"Aiden, we'll be _**late**_!"

Her whisper was a hiss and it stung.  
Normally, she'd tease him into submission and make him come around to her decision. He knew that most guys his age wouldn't like to be bossed around by a girl.  
But Aiden was already aware that he was not most guys.

Besides, friends do things together, don't they?  
You don't just call someone your best buddy and then ditch them at every turn, do you?

And Ashley had gotten him to laugh at adults, got him to keep those eyes open for more than five seconds, got him to sip beer, got him to silently switch theaters - from stupid movies about kids his age, with great families and dogs that play basketball, to movies with a lot of blood and screaming and naked women.

Ashley Davies was a shock to Aiden's system, all day and every day.

When he was still trying to pull his right leg over, muscles a bit strained with his too stunted movements, he heard her sigh.  
And it was as loud as a shot.  
And it was just as deadly as well.

"Catch up. If you **can**."

It was the first time she sounded like everyone else.  
It was the first time she just took off and left him there to fend for himself.

And when he fell to the ground minutes later, Aiden didn't have the will to follow this night.

/ /

"I was thinking party next Friday."  
"Yea, okay."  
"I'm going to widen the net, though. I keep seeing the same faces over and **over**."  
"Yea, well, they keep coming back because they want a chance with us, hmm?"

And he smiles.  
And she smiles.

But, for the first time, Aiden thinks that neither of them truly mean it.

/ /

**TBC**


	21. memory twentyone

"Knock knock..."  
"Who's there?"  
"Orange."

A small giggle from both sides of the conversation ensues, all from anticipation. They've been on the phone for way over thirty minutes, Aiden eager to share a book that Marissa gave to him - a book full of jokes - and Ashley was eager to hear each one.

"...Orange **who**?"  
"Orange ya glad to see me!"

The boy crows over the line and Ashley is kicking her feet against the hallway floor, laughing without breathing.

"Wanna hear another one?" Aiden asks and Ashley nods her head before her voice catches up.  
"Sure!"

She isn't sure what her parents are up to, they've been in the living room for a long time now. And with the nanny gone for the night, Ashley is taking full advantage of her father and mother being distracted.  
She twists her body around the side of the wall and looks at the clock, noting with a happy grin that it is now - officially - two minutes past her usual bedtime.

Of course, Ashley has stayed up late before, in her bedroom with a flashlight on and looking at picture books under the sheets.  
But this is different.  
This is being awake and downstairs, like adults get to do.

"Okay... Knock, knock..."  
"Who's there?"  
"Cow go."  
"Cow go who?"  
"No, cow go moo!"

They laugh some more and who knows just how long that would have continued, how long Aiden would have told knock-knock jokes and how long Ashley would have sat there on the floor, giggling like there was no tomorrow.  
She figures that it could have been a long time, because she's never had a friend like this before. Sure, all those girls in first grade are nice, but they are rarely fun.  
And Aiden might be a bit shy, but Ashley doesn't mind.

She likes the boy as he is, accidents and all.

It is a sharp sound that halts her laughter, the sting of a distant slap. The sound stops that laughter cold in her throat and the humor gets lodged there awkwardly as she listens to the voice that cuts in on this somewhat late-night conversation.

"**Neither** of you should be on the phone this late."

It is Aiden's mother.  
And Ashley isn't fearful of too many things.  
She has faced down spiders and that one snake that one summer. She has fallen into the deep end of Aiden's pool and didn't drown, just sputtered and kicked until she reached the surface, until she reached the metal ladder.  
But Aiden's mother scares Ashley just a bit.

"Say good night, Aiden. **Now**."

And the boy mutters a 'good night', which is followed with a very harsh click of the phone being hung up.

Of course, it wouldn't be the last time that Ashley heard what she should not, wouldn't be the last time that Ashley was made aware of the life that her best friend was living.

That night, though, she crept up the stairs and to her bedroom. And she stayed up until she fell asleep on a stack of notebook paper, colored pencils still strewn all over her bed.  
She was drawing something for Aiden, because she didn't know how to fix things.  
She just knew that the boy liked dinosaurs and Ashley was pretty certain she could draw one - greens and browns and lots of teeth.  
Because she didn't know what to do at all, except be a friend - to be the best friend ever.

Of course, that wasn't the last time that Ashley didn't know what to do or how to fix things, for Aiden or for herself.

It was just one of the first times.

/ /

The phone buzzes in her hand and the sensation slowly drags her back to life.  
She blinks in the darkness and wonders why she is asleep at all - it is only two in the morning - and yet she is still completely clothed, shoes on as if she were going out and then suddenly passed out.  
She wonders why she is even home at all, because this is not the place that Ashley likes to spend the night.  
She'd rather be anywhere else at all.

And the blue glow of the screen of her cell-phone tosses up a string of numbers, numbers that Ashley wouldn't be able to recite if anyone needed her to do so.  
Numbers that don't mean much, not in the grand scheme of life, but they mean enough to make Ashley pause and allow her thumb to rest over the button to answer.

And it won't be a knock-knock joke to greet her if she answers.  
But it'll still be a joke, just not the funny kind.

And she could put the phone away. She could set it to silent and turn onto her side and kick off those shoes. She could sleep here for once, imagine that outside of those doors is not a farce of a family or a friend that kind of depends on her, and rest like a child again.

Ashley could do those things, but the dawn would bring her back down.

And she is already about as far down as it goes these days.

/ /

It's not pretty and a part of her wishes it was.  
And that is a part of her that gets brutally ignored.

Instead, she counts each breath. One, two, three, four - so quick and so rough to her ears.  
And when she feels Spencer's fingers dance inside of her, curling with insistence and hooking her and reeling her in - helpless, terribly helpless - Ashley's back curves upward and her hips buck hard and the leather underneath burns hot against her skin as she moves with abandon.

And, really, it is the funniest thing ever.

Because no one has ever felt better there, pushing deep into Ashley's wet heat, no one has seem to fit so well and settle so quickly.  
Because Spencer is cutting her to the ground, saw to the trees, and Ashley is barely fighting it from happening.

And the laughter is a guttural groan, dragged out beautifully.  
And the orgasm is merely as wasted opportunity between them.

Again.

/ /

**TBC**


	22. memory twenty two

Like a whisper against her cheek, faint and delicate and shy, there is a second as she steps away where someone could imagine that this is love.

A sad love. A tragic love.  
No poison ingested or tears shed, but still heart-breaking and earth-shattering.  
No chest clutched in agony, but there is still the feeling of death with each touch that lingers too long instead of just ending.

Spencer knows that love is the enemy, though.  
Love is the trickster in the desert, leaping towards the sky with dancing eyes, and once you get too close... You are caught, just flesh between the teeth.

Love is the killer.  
And Spencer won't be a victim anymore.

/ /

"You know... what **happened** to you, Spence?"

He isn't the first person to ask this question, but - somehow - this is the first time that it has mattered and Spencer cannot answer in her usual lies.  
But she cannot answer at all.  
There is a game being mastered, after all. There is another player in this house and Spencer would rather chop off her own arm than lose to her mother.

And she knows that it is the other people, like Carmen, who must pay for this silent war.  
Other people, like her father, who must suffer for this silent battle.  
Other people, like Glen.

He used to be the shoulder she would run to, monsters under the bed, and there the boy would be with his plastic baseball bat.  
He used to be the face she would loudly yell at, toys smashed under foot, and there the boy would be with his superior seven-year old grin.  
He used to be a part of her world, a huge part, a steady force at her back and a snarky comment by her side and protective when least expected and gone - sometimes - when most needed.

But this is just another weekend that finds Spencer grounded.  
And this is just another person asking the same question. And she wants to be indifferent with her brother, wants to keep him at a distance, wants to be mad at him like she is mad at everyone.

The lies won't come out, though.  
They get stuck there, on her tongue and in her gaze to the floor.

And Glen walks away, sighing heavily, beating her to the punch like always.

/ /

There, feather-light upon her skin, is a moment.  
Where it is too tender, too much like being mesmerized and lost and still somehow found, and Ashley's lips press solidly to her stomach.

And where they are is forgotten, a back seat outside of that club.  
And that touch is dangerous. That is a deadly mistake to make, this type of contact.

Spencer freezes up and Ashley takes the cue, rushing past any other pleasantries and palms her and pushes down and plunges in.  
Taking that sensation of kindness and replacing it with decisive lust.  
Taking the moment and throwing it away.

And Spencer thinks that is just fine, just the way it should always be, just how her life should go, just how life goes, just how life is.

/ /

But she bites her lip as she comes and barely makes a sound.  
And she is grateful for the darkness that surrounds them.

Because Spencer dislikes nothing more than when tears cloud her objective for an evening.

/ /

**TBC**


	23. memory twenty three

How many times have you looked over and caught her eyes smirking before her lips can catch up, a little soft and a little dark in the outline of one point of light?  
How many times have you looked over and seen her grinning like she knows all the best things, smiling like she knows everything you forgot to learn?  
How many times have you looked over and found her hand before you, palm up and waiting, ready to pull you up when the world has shoved you down?

Hands and toes, count them all, and then repeat until you die.

That's how many times.

/ /

This girl and her hips are like magic, the way they piston backwards and take him in even deeper than before. And sweat is running down his forehead and he is gripping this girl tight, jerking her to him and she is making the most delicious sounds - a break out moan or two, a growl of want - and it is nearly perfect.

Her body is a ripple of movement, starting at the shoulders, flexing outwardly like wings.  
And then the spine undulates and she rears back and then goes forward again, burying her face somewhere that no man is ever going to go.  
And he doesn't look, not really, keeps the vision hazy - like it is a mirage, dancing there one minute and gone the next.  
That's how these things go, in this room.

Aiden doesn't see Ashley and Ashley doesn't see him.

That's how these things go, in this room and in this situation.

It is only afterwards, once that pretty girl with her pretty body leaves, that Aiden remembers all the things that he didn't think he saw or heard.  
Like teeth biting a bottom lip. Like eyes squeezed shut. Like the fingers fisted in hair.  
A deep groan that sounds like a plea. A rush of breath that comes out like a punch of air.

And, tonight, that knowledge is the only reason Aiden knows Ashley was there at all.

Nearly perfect.  
But not quite.  
Nearly there.  
But not.

/ /

"What's going on with you?"  
"What do you mean?"  
"Don't **bullshit** me, Ash..."  
"I'm not."

The girl is gone and Aiden has his pants back on and Ashley is keeping her eyes to the floor as she does up the buttons on her top, voice a dull monotone.  
It's when she starts to leave that Aiden does the reaching out, does what he has never had to do in all this time - makes the first move, takes the stand, does the asking - and grabs a hold of Ashley's arm.

"Please... **Don't **shut me out."

Aiden looks over at her, his best friend and his partner in crime and his entire world, and he waits for her to look back.  
Palm up and waiting. Knowing everything. A little soft and a little dark.  
Aiden waits for Ashley to let him in again.

"I've... I've got to go."  
"Ash-"

And the door opens and the music pours in and Ashley disappears in a sea of people.  
Like she was never there to begin with.

/ /

**TBC**


	24. memory twenty four

_Is there a how or why to this?  
Is there a when that we've forgotten? A where we should've already found?_

She tastes just like a lime. And sweat.  
And her hair smells like cigarette smoke, but that's not down to her.  
It's just that they have been outside for a while now, in the shadows of this alley, and the nicotine tends to drift this way - from all those bouncers minding the gate, from all those taxis passing by - and they are lost in the grey.

Ashley thinks that they might be even more lost than that.  
But she can laugh it off, because she is a tad drunk and alcohol is making all of this possible tonight. Or this morning. Or whatever time it is.  
She can laugh it all away, right here and right now, because Spencer tastes just like a lime.  
And just like sweat.  
And just like salt-rimmed shots. And just like a dream, a dream with fumbling hands and a half-smile and blonde locks shielding blue eyes.

_Is there a how or why to any of this?_

_Is there?_

/ /

Spencer groans and thrusts her hips, just a bit demanding, but the sly slip of fingers into her body let her know that even the most selfish request will be served.  
And she rolls and she rocks and she gets louder.

Because she is just outside of her house.  
Just outside of her house, the place where she has played and where she has cried and where she has slept and where she used belong.  
Just outside of the place she so despises.  
And the girl inside of her hesitates as lights come on, as they illuminate the back yard.

"Hey... hey, someone is-" The girls whispers.  
"Doesn't... matter..." Spencer grinds out, still pumping herself against the girl's hand.

The girl gets wary and stops moving as they are barely covered up by the nighttime. Two forms trying hard to blend in with the foliage and the darkness - one of them ready to run, one of them just begging to be seen.

And there at the door, peering out, is a face that Spencer knows so well.  
As if it were her own.  
And she can see her mother scanning, looking, searching. And Spencer wonders if the woman knows what monsters lurk out here tonight.

And does her mother care to find them?

The lights go back off and the girl lets out an audible shaky sigh. But when she tries to pull away, Spencer does not just demand - she forces and holds fast. Tight grip to the wrist and hot breath before a sharp bite.

"Let's finish this."  
"But what if they-"  
"'**They**' mean nothing. This is our party... right?"

This girl and her nervous touch, this girl isn't aware of whose house is so close and what stories are being written with each stroke of pleasure.  
This girl and her wide eyes, this girl does not know who she is fucking and it's best that she never find out.  
This girl doesn't know Spencer Carlin at all.  
And Spencer does not know this girl.

And that fact makes all things possible.

/ /

A group of people flood towards them, singing and being stupid and obnoxiously noisy.

And Ashley wraps her arm about Spencer's waist, pulling them both further into the alley and away from wandering eyes.  
Ashley's belt buckle is still undone. Spencer's shirt is still open.  
Ashley's left hand is still on the small of Spencer's back. Spencer's right hand is still curved around Ashley's neck.

The group breaks up then and one guy trips over his own feet, falling face first into the pavement with a drunken moan. His friends crack up over that.

And Ashley releases a huff of laughter as well, soft as everything, barely there.  
And Spencer lazily does the same, humor caught on her face like a thief, a sneaky sort of smile.  
Ashley slowly leans forward and Spencer's eyes blink rapidly and even amongst all the sounds of the city between the hours, there is the echo of inhaling - Ashley breathes, Spencer breathes, deeper and deeper... until there just isn't any air, except what they could give to each other.

If they wanted to.  
If it were possible.

A woman screams, not because of anything horrible, but because of pranks and shouts and teasing. The drunken man is jerked up and carried away.

And hands fall away and distance is created and they are both too sober now for terrifying things like what might have been, what could have been.  
Spencer buttons her top. Ashley adjusts her jeans.

"I'll call you."  
"Okay."

/ /

But weeks go by and the call never comes.  
Not from either of them.

/ /

**TBC**


	25. memory twenty five

The long sweep of fingers across her forehead, pushing back the hair, and then a faint grin - a promise of another tomorrow, another day of pancakes and giggling and arms that will always pick her up and spin her around - and then the lights go out and there is a whispered 'good night, sweetheart...'.

And the door is left open, just a crack.  
Keep the scary things away. Keep her mother close.  
Keep the bad things at bay. Keep her family ever near.

So, Spencer sleeps and it is peaceful and wonderfully lovely.  
It is wonderfully innocent.  
It is close to amazing.

/ /

He begs her for another story, another tale of knights and castles. Or bears and the forest and girls in red capes. Or of great creatures roaming the planet, lizard skin and sharp teeth.

If he could, he'd be a Tyrannosaurus rex and stomp around and tower over everything.  
Or maybe just being a fireman would do. Or he could be a soldier instead.  
He tells all of this to Marissa as she pulls up his blanket and tucks him in and pats his cheek as if he were her child.

As if she were his mother and not just some woman hired to take care of him.  
And Marissa doesn't forget to turn on his night-light.  
And Aiden stares at the dim glow until his eyes cannot stay open.

/ /

She hops into her bed and wraps her arm about this stuffed tiger, the one she begged for and that her father finally got for her - leaving it on the kitchen table when she got home from another day at kindergarten.

And the nanny checks to make sure she brushed her teeth and washed her face.  
And her mother says something from the hallway, something about 'hurrying up' and she isn't sure if that is meant for the nanny.  
Or for her, in the bed and still too awake.

She isn't sure if it is 'hurry up and go to sleep' or 'hurry up and turn out the light'.  
But her father pops his head past the door and grins at her and she smiles back.

He blows her a kiss and Ashley catches it. Like always. Like it is the only worthwhile thing.  
Better than a stuffed tiger.  
Better than anything at all.

/ /

**TBC**


	26. memory twenty six

"Shit... that **burns**..."

And Aiden laughs a bit after he says this, because he is already feeling light-headed.  
A lot of things seem funny to him right now.  
But Ashley just pats him on the back and smiles over at him briefly before turning her gaze out over the lights below.

They've been here a couple of times.  
Once, after the movies and after the drinking, after Marissa left for good and Aiden didn't want to admit that he would miss the woman - more than he even misses his own parents.  
And one other time, the two of them up here and trying to out-run the world and all its fucking mess, when Ashley fell apart in his kitchen and crumbled on the floor.

Aiden lost another part of himself at night.  
Ashley covered up the wound during the day.

But up here, above the city and the traffic and the families that suck and all the friends neither of them made and with no idea in their heads about how their lives would spin out of control...

Up here, Aiden drinks his first bit of straight vodka and it chokes him up.  
Ashley sips on a beer and doesn't join him as he tips the bottle over and over.  
He was always drinking more than her anyway.  
And he didn't want to ponder the reasons as to why either.

"The best things always do, Aiden."

And Ashley leans back on the hood of her car, feet dangling. And Aiden follows suit, resting the warm glass against his stomach.  
They have school tomorrow. They have classes that they are failing. There is a graduating day that does not hold his name and it doesn't hold her name as well.

But up here, the two of them staring at what stars they can see and Aiden a little light-headed and Ashley comfortably quiet, up here they've got it all figured out.

Up here, they are not just a couple of kids with adult troubles, they are just Aiden and Ashley - friends since the age of five - and up here, seventeen does not look so horrible.  
Up here, that room does not exist. It isn't even a gleam in Aiden's eye. It isn't a dread to come, a toy played with too often, the beginning of the end.

Up here, for a second or two, they are whole again.

/ /

Spencer plans for all things, up to the last detail and right down to the last minute.  
It gives a kind of order she does not allow in the rest of her life.  
It is a tiny foot-hold in a realm where she constantly free-falls.

She plans the outfits for each day. And she has planned so many birthday parties, in that halcyon past.  
She plans the way she smiles and the way she dances, how much she drinks and who she kisses with abandon.  
There is a method to her madness, one that only she recognizes - where things seem random, but nothing truly is.

But Spencer cannot dial Ashley's number.  
There is a hesitation in her wrist, tendons that refuse to move, and the unexpected tension causes her lungs to constrict.  
She might as well be drowning, because that is how she feels - wave upon wave, crashing down on her head.

And Spencer did not plan for that.

And in another time, in another wild and magical place, she might have indulged this new sensation. She might have looked at it with wide eyes. She could have reached out and let feather-light touches take her closer.  
In another lifetime, Spencer would have acknowledged the subtlety of a wall tumbling down, a set of trumpets - with brown eyes and sweet lips - dismantling her brick by brick.  
It could have been wondrous.  
It could have been the hand of God.

But there is only this life, the one that Spencer never wanted and the one that Spencer cannot set free, and she forces that finger to the buttons and she calls Ashley up.  
She takes that feeling, that crazy damn feeling, and kills it before it can kill her.

Spencer wraps the noose around her neck and pulls just a bit tighter.

/ /

**TBC**


	27. memory twenty seven

**I swear, this thing - writing style wise - is becoming rather experimental for me. It is all very stream of consciousness. And prose-ish. It's this crazy mixture of all the ways I can write. And I suppose it is working... but a part of me thinks I should just jump along and wrap it up.  
I just don't know yet.**

**Sorry. I rambled.**

/ /

Her hand is on yours and it tears you apart.  
You can't even say how it got there, how you let that happened, why you didn't just push the skirt back down and walk away and disappear.  
Because that's what you are good at now, right?

Disappearing.

But her hand is on yours and it tears you apart.  
It feels like someone is choking you as they are carrying you to safety.  
It feels like everything you've ever needed, but just can't let yourself have.

And all those seconds where you should be fading, you stay frozen beside her - her hand on yours - and you are being torn apart.

Inch by inch, Spencer believes her soul is being ripped beautifully to shreds.

/ /

"Can't tonight, sorry."

And his sigh annoys you as much as it stabs at you - it is childish and it is accusatory.  
And you want to explain your actions, you want to go back in time and never meet this girl who keeps calling you. But maybe you'd just keep going further and further.

Back to the night you first fucked someone with your best friend.  
Back to that moment where you found out that the truth was a pretty piece of fiction.  
Back to all the days where your smile wasn't an act and your affection didn't come with a price, it slipped out of you freely.

"Whatever, Ash."

And he hangs up on you. And it is so stupid. And it is so incredibly wrong.

But you can't turn back the hands on the clock and you get into your car, speeding to someone you barely know and wondering why you cannot seem to stop yourself from doing so.

Of course, Ashley is just pulling her own leg - she knows why her tires burn the street.

/ /

"Where are we?"  
"Does it matter?"  
"...No..."

There is a brief smile, small and still devious, and Ashley wants to wipe it off of Spencer's face. There are urges in Ashley's blood now, things she has never felt before and it scares her and it makes her do things that she'd rather not do - like kiss slow when she should be fast, like turn bites that should be fierce into something delicate.

Urges she fights off with pushing Spencer hard and watching the back of the knees hit the hood of the car. Urges she caves in to when she steps forward and slides her fingers through Spencer's long blonde hair, as languid as honey.  
Urges she battles when those legs part and Spencer is begging to be fucked.  
Urges she tries to deny when a bolt of light hits upon Spencer's bare skin and Ashley can't breathe because it is just too lovely to see.

If Ashley believed in love, then she would suspect that this is as close as she will ever get to such a notion.  
The beat of her heart increasing. The eagerness that trembles beyond the clothes she wears.  
The way she touches and forces herself to stop... only to come back, again and again.

And if Ashley believed in love, then she would reckon that one glimpse into Spencer's wounded gaze - panting and aroused and way too open - ruined her for other women.

Ruined her for a lot of things.

/ /

Tomorrow, you'll set it all right again.  
Tomorrow, you'll get back on track and wreck the world.  
Because that's all you are, right?  
You are the wreckage on the shore, just waiting to see who might give a damn and muse over what is left of you.

They can sort you and try to catalog you, but they'll never put you back together again.  
This is not fairy tale. This is no story-book world.  
You are not a princess. You are not innocent.

And anyone who thinks different is just delusional.  
Ashley must be delusional, too.

Still.  
Still, tomorrow, you'll bury this along with everything else that might have meant something.  
Likes laughter as your brother messed up your hair. Like arms holding you from behind as your father said good morning. Like your mother, looking at you like you are the best part of her and not a nightmare.

Tomorrow, you'll lock all this away and forget it ever happened.

/ /

Spencer stares out at the city below and she stares so hard that the colors change and dance.  
She stares so hard that any action she takes can seem like it comes from a completely separate person.

It is not Spencer who shifts her thumb, just a fraction, and feels it brush against Ashley's flesh.

It's not Spencer at all.

/ /

**TBC**


	28. memory twenty eight

There is talk of the stock market. There is talk of some function to attend.  
There is the soft clink of fork to plate. There is the lift of a glass, rich red wine slipping past lips, and then silence again.

They are so rarely home like this that Aiden wasn't sure if this man was his father - or the gardener. Aiden wasn't sure if this woman was his mother - or the maid.  
But then there is that whiff of after-shave, a scent lodged in Aiden's brain for years and years, and the man at the head of this hardly-used dining table is familiar once more.  
But then there is that sharp gaze, as piercing as a thousand needles, hitting Aiden's face and the pain resurfaces... There is his mother.

He used to make up stories as he tried to sleep, stories about being a lost child and this wasn't his real family and somewhere out there were parents that wanted him.  
They were probably searching high and low for him.  
They were surely crying a river of tears because he was gone.  
That was his favorite story, better than all the imagining of dinosaurs and gun-play and space travel. That was the story that helped his eyes finally shut at night.

Aiden would always awake in the morning, though, back in this life with a father who could care less and a mother who was too tough to handle.  
And Marissa would smile at him so kindly that he came to resent it as much as he craved it.

So, that left Ashley Davies, his best friend to pick up the pieces of his world and make living seem like a good thing, a worthwhile thing.  
And she did so - with her laugh and her smile, with her teasing and her rebellious streak, with her bravery and her ability to keep quiet about Aiden's secrets, with drinks and dares and playful demanding - Ashley cut him a path in which he could finally run free.  
And all the times he should have stepped up, all the times he should have stood on his own two feet, they just fell away because Aiden wasn't sure he could survive alone.

He'd already lived so long with no one.  
He didn't want to leave behind the one person who gave a damn.

And the plates are taken away by the cook. And his father pushes away from the table, tie still perfect around his neck.  
And his mother dabs at the corners of her mouth. And Aiden wants to scream and scream until the windows shatter.

But at the moving of his chair, Aiden's mother shoots him a look that stills his retreat.  
His father is gone now. No one is left in this room but the two of them.

"We received the latest cleaning bill, Aiden. I don't know what the **hell** you are getting up to while your father and I are away, but you are to stop it **this instant**. Am I making myself clear? If I get another pink slip like this last one, Aiden, I'll throw you out of here myself."

If he were five and this was her hand to his face, Aiden would have crumbled. He would have flinched in fear. He would have done anything to make her love him and not despise him so much.  
But these are just words. And the world is not as it used to be, not even for Aiden - with a room that was meant for pleasure, but is quickly turning into a chasm no one can cross... with a best friend who was his rock and his stability, but who is now keeping secrets from him instead.

The world isn't changing. It is already terrifyingly new.  
And these are just words. And Aiden doesn't want his mother's love anymore.  
He isn't sure **what** he wants anymore. He isn't sure what is left for him to have.  
And there is no one to call.  
And there is no hand to hold.  
And Aiden suddenly isn't sure if he cares at all anymore - about anything.

"Go ahead then."

And Aiden pushes away from the table, fishing out the keys to that car he never drives from a coat pocket, and walks out the door.

And, for once, Aiden doesn't look back to see who might be there to save him.  
For once, Aiden tries to save himself.

/ /

**TBC**


	29. memory twenty nine

Closing her eyes, because she is tired and class is too long and Carmen keeps shooting her looks - looks that ask for a return to a friendship that really only existed for one of them - and Spencer cannot find the emptiness she seeks.

Closing her eyes, Spencer finds things she does not want to see.

And to a normal girl, with a normal life, it might jump start a normal girl's heart.  
It might turn into silly drawings on a notebook and shy talk about feelings.  
It might turn into something after all.

And Spencer opens her eyes again.  
And she tightens her jaw, as if she can grind her teeth into dust, bolting from her seat once the bell rings.  
And she runs, like always, runs from the pain and runs from the ghosts and runs from the shame and runs from the mere idea that things could ever change.

It's too late for change, that's what Spencer thinks.

It's too late for so many things.  
That's what Spencer believes.

/ /

But maybe there was a shred of hope that didn't get trampled, hovering over the edges of her bedroom - caught on photographs that she neglected to remove, stuck to the pages of books that she forgot to put away, lingering on the faces of dolls that still sit upright.

Maybe there was always a tiny glimmer of hope, buried underneath layers of agony and self-hatred. Maybe there was always a part of her that didn't want to be so bad, didn't want to be so destructive, didn't want to be the girl rushing head long into disaster.

Maybe it wasn't too late.  
At least until today, with things behind her eyes that she does not want to see.

And Spencer looks around her room, the one place that she's kept far from harm, subconscious actions mocking her like never before. And Spencer sees the picture of her mother, smiling next to her seven year old face - front tooth missing - a memory held onto like it means more than it does.

And maybe it did. Maybe it does.  
Maybe that's why Spencer has to crush it and strangle it and watch the life leave the body of who she once was, of who this room once belonged to.

/ /

"Hey."  
"Come over tonight."  
"Where to?"  
"My place."  
"...Really?"  
"I'll text you the directions. Get here late, okay?"  
"Uh... yea, okay..."

/ /

Spencer closes her eyes.  
And everything she sees is a betrayal and a beautiful dream and a lost cause.

Spencer grips the phone hard, feels the pressure around her knuckles, feels the arm start to shake.  
And everything she feels is a waste and a heady thing and a flood of pointless want.

Spencer thinks of tonight.  
And tonight, that invisible line in the sand will be forever crossed.

/ /

**TBC**


	30. memory thirty

All the roads are vaguely similar at night, sharp corners dulled by the black, glass just a glint from streetlights above. And Spencer's house doesn't look abnormal from where Ashley sits, here in the warm leather seat of her car as the engine idles without making a sound.

It's got a couple of stories and big bay windows and a two-car garage.  
There are trash-cans at the edge of the drive, ready to be picked up and emptied.  
And beyond the curtains is a world that Ashley knows nothing about.

But she knows about pavement and about lawns. She knows all about the sound a door makes when it is slammed. She knows that what is shown isn't always what is the truth, too.

But it's not like she knows Spencer.  
Ashley does not know Spencer's last name, doesn't know Spencer's favorite song, doesn't know what might make the girl smile.  
They've turned one-night into many nights, that's all.  
They've stretched the rules a bit, a single inch at first, but then a little more.  
And there are other rules that Ashley is breaking, jotted down on a piece of notebook paper, other rules that she agreed to and cannot seem to abide by.

Bonds that she is pushing, roles that she is ignoring - and still, she sits in her car with the engine on and eyes on a home that is not her own... and Ashley calls Aiden.  
Like a lying friend, which is what she is now, reaching reluctantly for what used to fill up all the ports in her empty world.  
A shoe too tight, but still held onto. A box of letters that you can't read, but could never throw away. A voice you've cherished for so long, but that no longer rings as bright.

But Aiden doesn't answer.  
And that gives Ashley the only answer that is left, the only response that she has created room for these days.

Because Ashley knows all about turning silence into a shield, too.

/ /

His arm was about her shoulders and it wasn't the first time she had ever cried, but she was going to make damn sure it was the last.  
The last of her tears. The last of her sadness. The last of her feeling much of anything.

And there, with a house full of quiet, Aiden did what he could and did what he does best - he held her like she might break and he didn't say a word.  
Ashley had started to shun physical forms of affection even as she was starting to indulge in other methods of intimate touching, casually sacrificing love for sex, and - normally - she'd be the girl who would punch an arm and scoff at emotions.

That was her act, after all. That was the guard she put up to the world at large.  
And it kept those childhood sorrows back, beasts with weeping eyes held at arm's length.  
But there, in Aiden's kitchen, the locks fell down... as if they were never locked at all.

"She's not my mother."

A laugh that was a sob, drunk and pathetic, as her knees drew upward to her chin.

"She never was."

And the slight flexing of his fingers, upon her arm, something like reassurance, maybe something like comfort. What did Ashley know of comfort anyway?  
Is it a nanny who forces her to eat carrots? The one or two times that her father patted her head and smiled at her like she was more than a faint remembrance?  
Was it the gifts she got at every birthday and on every Christmas day, professionally wrapped with purchased care?  
A stupid stuffed tiger that was a stand-in for parental devotion?

"And out there, somewhere, is some other woman who doesn't give a fuck about me..."

There's that laugh. There's that sob. There's that alcohol in her bloodstream. There's her sixteen year old body, sort of shaking and being held awkwardly by her best friend, and Ashley vowed - right then and there - to never feel this way again.

It's easy to not care when no one cares in return. It's easy to lie when everyone lies to you first. It's easy to say you have a friend when you are just two broken people, as desperate as you are angry.

It's easy to pretend nothing matters when everyone else plays along.

/ /

This might be the only time she'll ever hold your hand.  
So you hold it back, not too softly - you want her to know you are there.  
And not too strongly - you don't want her to know more than she should.

You wonder if, in another lifetime, would the two of you had met in some other circumstance. Maybe just bumping into each other. Maybe she would laugh at your lame jokes and that's the sound you'd keep in order to sleep well at night.  
Maybe you'd be sneaking up to her room, after hours and past slumbering family, more like a Shakespearean hero and less like a cheap trick of the light.

But there you are, Romeo, lips upon this poison.  
And you'll drink it up like it is going out of style.

/ /

Spencer is quick and determined and every breath bounces off these unfamiliar walls with an echo.  
And Ashley thinks her heart is beating too hard, timpani drums pounding out, telling the universe of her shocking need.  
She is lost, though, lost in the mouth that bears down upon her chest and disappearing into the rippling sensation inside of her abdomen.

Lost as she slides her hand down and presses two fingers firmly to the heat, to the wetness.  
Lost as she lingers too long upon Spencer's loud moan, the way it fills up her ears like the crash of a wave.  
Lost in a girl she does not know. Lost in a girl that she'd give anything to know.

The two of them seemingly lost in one another as the lights come on.

/ /

**TBC**


	31. memory thirty one

Everything is dark.  
And this girl, this girl with her come-hither grin and hands on his hips, this girl has a million faces. But in these shadows, closed in by music no one can truly hear, this girl is like no other.  
She is sweet enough to seem kind. She is bad enough to seem fun. She presses close and says all the right things.

But Aiden knows better.  
And running used to be okay, because he used to have someone running with him.  
It's easy to say you are moving forward if someone is there with you. You can judge your life by your reflection in their eyes - if they smile, so do you.  
If they laugh, so do you.  
If they fade away... so do you.

But Aiden knows better now.  
He probably always knew - nothing lasts forever.  
And, sometimes, there is nothing there to begin with.

And everything is dark in this club, with this girl, and he'll kiss her lips.  
He'll take her out to that rarely driven car and he'll run his fingers up her bare leg.  
As if in a script, Aiden will seduce with his eyes closed and hide just a little longer from the approaching dawn.

But Aiden knows better.  
And he knows worse, too.

"Mmm, baby, you are making me **so hot**..."

This girl moans and this is the moment - stage left, out the door, fuck her senseless and then walk away. This is moment he has been in for days and days, months and months.  
This is where he'd look over and find Ashley waiting, with a nod and a confident leer.  
This is where all the make-believe chances have led him.

A love never reached.  
A breath never taken.  
A dare he never took.  
A life never lived.

And everything is dark.  
And Aiden is just a child, trying to sort the rubble from the treasure, trying to force his way past the surface, trying to find light again.

/ /

He ignores the phone buzzing in his pant pocket. But he drives to their spot, high above the city. And Aiden is completely alone.

And he takes a breath.

And he takes another.

And he keeps on breathing.

/ /

Everything is bright.  
But it is not a summer day and it is not sunlight through a window.  
It's not even a flashlight in the middle of the night, kids sneaking around and up to no good.

Then again, isn't that what they are?  
Children playing with adulthood. Kids toying with dangerous things like sex and sorrow.  
Aren't they truly up to no good, in this room and half undressed, when the light pops on and breaks the trance and takes this game and makes it real?

And Ashley doesn't know about Paula Carlin.  
She does not know about the unspoken argument going on between mother and daughter.  
But Ashley was crossing her own lines tonight.  
Fine and strong strings, strummed like a guitar, and now she has lost the tune - barriers she set up in order to protect and, yet, she knocked them down.  
Those rules, those words, that room and that practiced charm - Ashley let each one slide from her grasp as she looked into Spencer's blue eyes and saw that beautiful wound in the irises.

And everything is bright in this bedroom now.  
The walls. The floor. The colors in every corner.  
The contrast of Ashley's skin to Spencer's, tan to a rosy white, flesh on display.  
The gaze from the doorway, incandescent with a cold rage.  
The calm way that Spencer holds Ashley's wrist and does not let it go - so bright it is fucking blinding.

Blinding Ashley to fall-out to come, stunning her gently into silence, as two voices quietly attack one another.

"You can just turn around and go back out the way you came in."  
"I told you, Spencer. Not in this house, not in **my** house."  
"Oh... I guess I forgot. I mean, it was** really **chilly out there tonight. Sucks to be in the middle of an orgasm and get frostbite."

Ashley blinks slowly, finding it hard to focus on anything now.  
And her muscles suddenly ache and she tugs at Spencer's hold upon her, but the girl does not let go. The grip only gets stronger, turns somewhat painful.

"How **dare** you speak to me like this... Bringing sin into our home, into our **lives** like this..."

And the voices get louder.  
And it is so bright in this room that Ashley's eyes hurt, they even sting and burn, as if she were crying and didn't realize it.  
But it can't be her with the tears, because it is Spencer - Spencer's defiant and battered stare, trying to be so hard and failing, trying to be so indifferent but caring too much instead.  
Trying to be just another girl in between two lost friends, in a room and at a party.  
But, in the end, revealing it all anyway - she'll always be Spencer Carlin, a girl desperate for a love that will never come.

"Oh yes, **I'm **the one who has ruined our **perfect** family! That wasall me, wasn't it, Paula? Not you, **never** you."  
"What you are doing is **wrong**, Spencer! It is wrong and disgusting and it is tearing our family apart. Can't you see what you are **doing** to us?"  
"And what about what you are doing to **me**?"

And Spencer's question is like thunder, rattling the foundation of this house.  
And Ashley stops trying to pull away, frozen and breathing hard and scared for so many reasons - not wanting to be here, not knowing how to leave, too far in and still too far removed, a part of this but really just being used.

And everything is bright and horribly illuminated, scars shown and deceptions unfolding.  
The steady silver stream along Spencer's face.  
The alabaster of knuckles as they strangle the door knob across the way.  
Everything is bright and ugly and Ashley hates how it makes her feel.  
She hates how it makes her **feel**.

"I... I should go..." Ashley whispers.  
"Yes, you **should**." The woman from the doorway responds harshly.

And Ashley waits, for just a second, for Spencer to demand that she stay.  
In fact, some strange and newly formed part of herself, almost expects Spencer to grab a hold of her and not let go.

Some part of her doesn't want Spencer to let go.

/ /

She ignores the red lights and the stop signs. But she barely makes it down the road, pulling onto the shoulder and throwing the car into park.  
And Ashley is completely alone.

And a sob rushes out of her.

And then another.

And she keeps on sobbing.

/ /

**TBC**


	32. memory thirty two

**Meh. Not so great. But I needed to jump back on this horse. It's a lame excuse, but school really does take over sometimes.**

/ /

"Do dogs **really** go to heaven?"

Spencer's voice was a pleasant echo around the dinner table.  
And while Glen could have cared less about whatever his sister was saying, Arthur and Paula Carlin found almost everything about Spencer adorable.

But the girl had just seen some old movie and it made her cry, made her think about their dog - Buster, with the increasingly gray fur around his mouth - and she didn't like the idea that he might not get to join her in that far-away land in the sky.

He was the best dog, everyone knew that. He could chase down sticks that were thrown and he never growled when Spencer used to tug on his tail in order to sometimes stand up - back when she was just a baby and not a big girl - and he always licked her face until she would giggle and fall back onto the grass below.

Spencer had decided, after seeing that movie, that if Buster went to heaven tomorrow... well, she would just have to follow.

He was her best friend. She didn't want to sit around here if he was gone.

But she didn't want to go to heaven if Buster couldn't be there, either.

Her mother's smile was soft and her father's laugh wasn't mean, it was gentle.  
Glen rolled his eyes, but Spencer refrained from sticking her tongue out at him.  
She'd get in trouble and she did not want that, not with such an important question on the line.

"Sure they do, honey." Her father answered, smiling at her warmly.  
"How do you know?"  
"Because God loves all the animals. Remember that story about Noah?" Her mother finished as she reached out and ran the palm of her hand over the top of Spencer's head.  
But Spencer did not really remember at all. She found Sunday school boring.

"Even snakes?" Spencer continued.

They both chuckled, but they both nodded their heads with a pleased 'yes'.

"What about bugs? Because they bite sometimes and I wouldn't want to spend time with them in heaven."  
"Yep, bugs too."

She shook her head in remorse over that fact, but felt better nonetheless.  
Buster was safe. They'd get to play for a long, long time.  
And that made Spencer happier than she could ever remember being.

It was silent for a few moments and then a new question formed in her head.  
And it tumbled out just like all the others tended to do.

"Does everyone go to heaven? Even bad people?"

She went to church every Sunday, sometimes more than that - on special occasions.  
She knew words from the Bible and she knew to always smile at the man who stood at the front of the all the pews.  
She was told stories - about floods and boats and such - but Spencer wasn't one for paying attention very often.  
But she liked getting dressed up and she liked holding her mother's hand as they walked through those large wooden doors.  
She liked how her father looked, in a suit with a tie, and the way he would pick her up and hold her close and kiss the side of her head.

"As long as they are sorry, Spencer, then God won't turn them away. Heaven is for everyone."

Spencer liked that answer, too.  
It told her that tiny white lies could be forgiven. It told her that, even if she got mad sometimes, God wouldn't hold it against her.  
Even if she didn't always listen during church, God knew that she wasn't trying to be awful - she was just six or seven, she was just a girl with an imaginative mind and antsy feet.

It told her that saying 'sorry' meant something.  
It wasn't just a word. It wasn't just a joke. It wasn't just a pretend sentiment, alligator tears slipping down a cheek.

Just say you are sorry and God will be there waiting, arms open.

/ /

She has always envied the defiant rebel - red jacket and cigarettes rolled up in the sleeve - but she is no rebel with or without a cause.  
She isn't even defiant, though the show is a good one.  
She should have sold tickets.  
She should have done this in the daytime, let those neighbors see and hear, take it out into the streets.

But no one gets what they want, not in this world.

And Paula Carlin is like stone, cut so beautifully against the door, a statue where a mother used to be. And two faces emerge from the shadows, confusion mixed with dread on their features - not sure what is going on and fearing that they know exactly what is going on.

Her father looks like a damn child and Spencer feels hatred rush up her throat.  
And it is for the man she thought he was.  
And it is for the girl she once was, too.  
Glen looks tense and taut, ready to run, skittish as a colt.  
And she can't believe that he is the older sibling, timid in his t-shirt and boxer shorts.  
And she can't stand him.  
And she can't stand herself, too.

She feels the hatred and she feels the loneliness and she feels the desperation.  
It's all she can fucking feel.  
It's all she has felt for five years or more.

Twelve and she got scared and she hid it, even from herself.  
Thirteen and she didn't want to lie anymore and she wanted love, so much love.  
Fourteen and she was caught and she turned from simple to complex overnight.  
Fifteen and she was bitter and she was secretly pining for days gone by and she was lost.  
Sixteen and she disappeared into herself and she became a haunted kind of person.

Spencer is a ghost. Hollow and terrifying, but still trying to be seen - anyway she can manage it, even like this, even in this bedroom and with her top off and pants undone.

And it would be nice if this was salvation, if this was actual defiance, if this was a single step of courage.  
But this act is just a water-less form of drowning, just a quiet method of suicide.

And it would be nice if someone could say 'sorry' and all this pain could be forgotten and a mother could open her arms and a girl could find heaven in that embrace.  
And it would be amazing if bad people could be forgiven - for not caring, for not being there, for lying, for causing anguish, for pushing loved ones away, for every moment wasted.

But no one gets what they want.  
Not in this world.

And this act isn't a beginning.

It is an end.

/ /

**TBC**


	33. memory thirty three

**Blah de blah.**

/ /

It's the first day of summer and your feet pound down the stairs, hair a mess and Marissa trying to catch your attention from the kitchen, but you've got a friend waiting on your front step.

She is pressing the door-bell repeatedly.  
And you are glad your father is away, because he would complain.  
And you are glad your mother is away, because she would scold.

But Marissa will merely shake her head.  
Then she will fix the both of you bowls of cereal and turn on the television, putting cartoons on, and she'll pat your shoulder with affection.

That familiar tone chimes throughout the house over and over and you'll have to tell the girl that she might break it if she keeps on like that.  
But it makes you grin, too.

It's the first day of summer and Ashley is smiling as she pushes past you, sneakers squeaking on the marble floors.  
And Marissa calls the two of you over, small voices chattering about silly things - a movie you want to see, a house she wants to spy on, a bike ride where speed is everything.

Soon, though, it is crunching and laughing and milk-covered lips.  
And maybe you'll see that movie. And maybe she'll get you to spy on that house.  
And maybe your feet will pedal faster and faster, racing the wind and with your best friend at your side.

It's the first day of summer, after all.

Anything is possible.

/ /

Aiden waited out the day.  
And he waited out the night.

Home was never a great place, but when his parents were away, he could tolerate the long hallways and the empty rooms and the deafening silence.

And when he couldn't, then salvation was always just a phone-call away.

So many evenings of finding Ashley Davies on his front step or at his window, smile slowly growing up from wide to sly, but still the same girl on the inside.  
Still the one to start something. Still the one to finish something, too.

But Aiden waited out the day.  
And he waited out the night.

And home was never what it should have been, so he crafted a safe haven the best way he could - in Marissa's gentle palm along his face, in Ashley's teasing laugh and sure nod, in girls with drunk longings and in never looking forward, always wary of looking back.

Now the day is done. And those parents have fled once again.  
Now the night is coming down. And on that front step, back to the door, sits Ashley Davies.

Like she never left. Like she's always been there.  
But no, nothing is the same, and Aiden knows it.

It is in a call that he did not answer.  
It is in a fuck he just couldn't go through with.  
It is in a secret his best friend just won't share.  
It is in a threat met head-on, a mother's glare no longer potent.

And Aiden isn't sure if this is getting older. Or just getting more and more lost.  
But it is here now, the deep end and the late-night party and that first shot of alcohol.  
It is here now, what comes after the hit and what comes before the truth - here it is, man, here it is.

/ /

"Hey."

There is that different thing on her face, the thing that Aiden does not recognize.  
But it resembles a morning not that long ago, in the kitchen of this large house, with his arm around Ashley and a girl's world crumbling.

"Hey."

He stays against his car, leaning on the passenger door, arms crossed and eyes flicking from the dark ground to Ashley's face in and out of the street light.  
And he watches as his friend rubs a hand over her face, trying to wipe away something and finding it seemingly impossible.

"I, uh, I called you. What have you been up to?"

Her voice sounds raw and strange. Not at all like Ashley Davies. Not at all like the first one to dive into the pool, not at all like the taunting girl ahead of him, not at all like the confident counterpart to his shy boy smiles.

She sounds beaten. She sounds like the opposite of victory.

"Nothing much. Just been, you know, around."

It gets wider, this space between them. It stretches out and extends. If one of them were to shout, there would be an echo.

"Oh."

Like she doesn't know him anymore. Like he doesn't know her anymore.  
Which is far from reality and closer to reality, simultaneously.  
Aiden knows how Ashley got this scar on her left elbow. He knows the sound of her laugh when she has had too much to drink. He knows what her eyes look like when she is wounded.

Aiden wanted to know these things. Wanted to keep her close, wanted to keep her around, wanted to have someone stick and not fall away from his life.  
But he can't make her stay.  
He should have never thought he could, even if she led him to think it was working.  
Even if they both bought into it, needy for care and desperate for security.

"I... I should get some sleep."

Ashley stares at the ground beneath her feet and Aiden watches her from the corner of his gaze.

"We could hang out."

But they can't. But they won't. There is something between them - a secret, a change, a canyon, a room, a sadness, a shared kind of war - and anger is the only thing that Aiden can feel.  
That's what happens when you lose something and that's what happens when you lose someone - all when you didn't want to, but when you have to.

"And do **what**, Ash?"

His tone is harsh. And she looks up at him, not so much startled as sort of confused.

"I don't know. Whatever. Whatever you want."

Want is a funny thing. He used to think he understood the notion.  
But now, now it is as vague as everything else.  
Now, it is less about getting and more about demanding. Now, it hurts more than it teases.

"Okay. Cool. How about you tell me why you are sitting here and why you've been crying?"  
"I've not been crying-"  
"Bull-shit. More** fucking **bull-shit."

And want is a funny thing. He used to think he understood the notion.  
But now, now it is as broken as everything else.  
Now, it is less about pleasure and more about pain. Now, it cuts more than is soothes.

"I don't have to **tell you **anything, Aiden. You got that?"

And, on some other day, she'd sound more in charge. She'd sound like a general and he'd probably fall in line.  
But she is the weak one this time. And Aiden finds himself front and center, finger on the trigger, ready to pull.

"Then why the fuck are you** here**? What is it, want to throw a party? Want to set it all up and then slink off to wherever it is you go these days?"  
"**Jesus**, you talk like I'm your fucking property or something. I can go **where** I want, **do** what I want. I don't have to** explain **myself to you."

All the hours, all the hours they have talked and all the hours they've whispered, all the hours where neither of them had to say much because they both got it - why he was so scared, why she was so reckless - all the hours between them, all the long and endless hours.

"That's just **it**, Ash! I didn't used to have to beg you to talk to me, to tell me what is going on with you. It's like you've just decided to cut me out and it fucking **hurts**!"

His voice is loud. Too loud. Too loud and too noticeable and too real. And Ashley winces in the shadows, something she never does, like his words have sliced her open and cut her too suddenly.  
And there, beyond that thin and tender layer, is the world they must leave behind - pinkie-promises and dinosaurs and stuffed tigers and abuse and neglect and two children who found solace in each other and turned away from all others.

She can't lie about it now, because the tears are filling up her eyes and she is pressing her hands hard against her face and her shoulders shake with the sobbing.  
And Aiden walks so slowly, foot-steps heavy like lead, sitting down beside this girl he has known for what seems like forever.

And maybe two in the morning is the only time she can speak from the heart.  
And maybe two in the morning is the only time he can be the strong one.  
And maybe the universe is ending, imploding and wiping out galaxies.

/ /

Aiden puts his arm around Ashley's shoulders.  
And she leans against him, turns into him, and cries.

"I'm sorry."  
"...I know."

/ /

But that's how new worlds are made.

And maybe they'll never be the kind of friends they have been.

But maybe they'll be a better version this time around.

/ /

**TBC**


	34. memory thirty four

Get up. Get dressed. Walk down the stairs. Walk out the door.  
Carry that bag on your shoulder. Step on every crack within the sidewalk.  
Smile. Take notes. Take small bites of lunch. Sip the water from the bottle.  
Move from room to room.  
And not a word to anyone, not a single word spoken.

You are invisible.

/ /

_"There's... someone."_

_He doesn't remove the arm. He doesn't run away. He doesn't speak, though. That's up to you, right? You are the one on his doorstep, you are the one with tears falling down your cheeks, you are the one keeping things quiet these days._

_"Fuck, I __**hate**__ feeling this way. I hate how she makes me __**feel**__."_

_But you are lying. But you are too truthful.  
You hate the way she makes your heart speed up and you hate the way she complicates your world.  
But you are lying, because you want her more than you've wanted anyone.  
But you are telling the truth, because she needs a savior and you are just some girl, just some girl with a head full of baggage and a body full of your own regrets._

_"I hate... I hate how much I feel when it comes to her..."_

/ /

Get up. Get dressed. Walk down the stairs. Walk out the door.  
Leave the books behind. Slow down that already emotionless stroll.  
Half-smile. Keep the pen on the desk. Don't eat. Hold the bottle, but keep it closed.  
Linger in the hallway.  
And not a word to anyone, not one damn word to anyone.

You are transparent.

/ /

_How she makes you feel, oh how she makes you feel so much.  
So much more than you are used to, so much more than you've allowed._

_And her eyes took you in, her eyes tricked you and played you and suckered you.  
Her eyes, windows to the fucking soul, and what you found there was terrible and beautiful, wasn't it?  
Wasn't she just the most lovely and broken thing on the face of the Earth?_

_"...Ash?"_

_His voice is unsure. His voice is soft. His voice is twelve years old, but it is also shades of eighteen. His voice is a friend and his voice is a stranger.  
But you are staring off into nothing, your hand clinging to his shirt and your eyes red with sorrow._

_And his voice is worry - for you, always for you.  
And right now, that is not a burden - it is a comfort.  
You need comfort, don't you? You need the care and you need this arm about you and you need your friend, your best friend, don't you?_

_You need this, because you are falling fast and there is no safety on the ground below._

_"It's like she's carved some hole into me, some place where only she fits... and I can't get her out of me... I can't __**fucking**__ get her out of me and I need to, you know... I __**need **__to..."_

/ /

Get up. Get dressed. Hurry down the stairs. Hurry out the door.  
Walk the opposite way. Walk fast. Then run.  
No smile. No classrooms. No cafeteria. No money into the machine.  
Breathing heavy at the end of this road, houses to the left and right and trees ahead.

And not a word. Not a single word. Not a shout. Not a whimper.

You are nothing.  
That's what you are today.  
And it was supposed to feel like pressure coming off a valve, it was supposed to release the tension and it was supposed to finally blow up.

Kill you or carry you away. Either would do. Right?

But no, not for you, not for the girl who has sinned so well.  
For you, it is this - lungs burning and school forgotten and never-ending silence.  
For you, it is this - faces that turn away and ignorance and a quiet so loud, so damn loud.

And it was supposed to feel better.  
But it just feels worse.

Spencer's knees hit the pavement, as if God were before her and watching with a cold gaze, and she knows that she has not measured up.  
God knows she has failed. God knows she has fucked up. God knows about her nights, knows about her anger, knows about her lust - less for sex and more for revenge.

God knows everything and God pulls the tears from her, her chest tight with sadness, as she kneels on this road and cries and cries and cries.

/ /

_But even as you beg, you betray yourself._

_Because there she is - in your head, a vision split into a thousand images - there she is.  
On top of you and warm and gorgeous. Eyes open. Naked in more ways than one.  
Dancing. Spinning. Drunk and lost and in your arms. In your bed right before you run away.  
Sexy and cool and delicious. Close but still far away. Close but never close enough.  
A soft laugh. A quick look. Motionless as you almost make a move. As you almost break all the rules. As you almost jump every barrier.  
Name on your phone. Hand in your own. Addictive. Alluring._

_There she is, Spencer, that girl you never really knew and didn't know you wanted to know._

_But even as you make excuses, you betray yourself._

_Because knowing Spencer is the only thing you can think to do._

_And there she is, a hand upon your wrist and a shattered expression and pale flesh and some kind of battle playing out as you stand by like a scared statue.  
There she is. Spencer, that girl, that __**damn**__ girl._

_"...I think I love her and I can't fucking stand it..."_

_You whisper into his chest, trying to avoid your own admission.  
And he lets you - in so much that he does not force you away from his person. He continues to hold you. He continues to give you somewhere solid to stand and declare such dangerous things._

_But even as you hide, you betray yourself._

_Because he heard it, but more importantly, you heard it, too._

/ /

**TBC**


	35. memory thirty five

**Removed the last chapter. Why? Because it just did not fit with what I have in my head and that was driving me up the wall. This is much better. Now I can move forward again.**

**Yay.**

/ /

Being the leader has it drawbacks, you know?  
You can toss out the lines, you can barrel through the doors and climb out the windows, you can flip off the people and sneer at everyone.  
You can do so much, because you expect it of yourself and the rest of the world expects it of you as well.

There are those moments, though, where you don't know what to do.

Do you smile or do you stay as stiff as a board? Do you laugh or do you grimace?  
Do you tell the truth when it scares you... or do you play along with the lies instead?

And you would have kept it all in if you could have, this is a fact.  
You'd have kept it all locked away, trying to save yourself the aggravation of admittance and the awkwardness of emotions.  
You've been doing that for so long - it is second nature for you to not talk about it.

'It' being the caring in your heart, for a friend who has had nothing but shit thrown at him.  
'It' being the sadness in your body, for parents that might as well be figments of your imagination.  
'It' being the need in your soul, for a blonde-haired girl you barely know and, yet, know better than anyone.

There are moments, though, where you want to let the words fall out and you cannot stop that stream of chatter and it tumbles out of you.  
And it is not the past, where you made yourself so big and so tough.  
And it is not the future, because you can't see it clearly and you are staring to think that that is the point of the future anyway.

It is you, on his doorstep, being honest.  
It is you, a child asleep on drawings of dinosaurs.  
It is you and promises kept and shoulders there to lean on.

It is you, realizing that - despite all the disconnect, willing and otherwise - no one has to be alone.

Not Aiden. Not Spencer.

Not even you, Ashley, not even you.

/ /

Ashley stares at the phone, like it might ring.  
Or like she might actually make the call.

Because she wants to. She wanted to make the call even as she was running out of Spencer's house, wanted to turn around and take the girl with her, wanted to hold the two of them together like lost pieces to a puzzle.

And these thoughts scare her, the way they beat in time with her heart, the way they heat up her veins with unfamiliar longings.  
She** longs **for Spencer. She aches to reach out, muscles used to atrophy and sore with new movement. All her actions up to this point have been controlled, only slipping up and flailing about once or twice in sorrow... But then Ashley would jerk it all back inward, hold back that tide, stay that storm.

But the trees are blowing back and forth now.  
And the skies are growing cloudy and gray.

Love is here and it won't be denied.

And she is used to being the one leading the charge, full steam ahead, no regard for consequences, no thought of the fall-out.  
She had things to forget. She had wounds to ignore. She had a life to reinvent in sex and in distance and in faking nonchalance.

Spencer has stripped away the pretense.

And Ashley is left here, sitting in her car in some empty parking lot, staring at her cell phone.  
Wanting to call. Wanting to know. Wanting to hear Spencer's voice. Wanting to say the right things and give the kind of comfort that she has never really tried giving before - one without kisses, one without expectations, one without a shred of selfishness.

She's not sure if she can manage it.

But she wants to. And that's a start.

That's something.

/ /

You've always been the leader.  
But you are faltering now and he is driving around this town, driving around in circles.  
Or that's how it feels. That's how your head feels.

You go from one possible action to the next and never take a single step.

You've always been the leader, but now you are just standing still.

And you want to tell him to drive to Spencer's house. But you aren't sure that is wise.  
And you want to just fucking call the girl up. But you don't know if she wants to hear from you.

After all, Spencer has not called you. Three days and the girl has not called you.

And you can think of thousands of reasons to take that leap.  
And you can think of a million more to stay silent.  
And Aiden's eyes shift your way several times, gauging you and figuring you out, weighing the confessions you hushed out with your present inability to make good on them.

"You won't know, Ash, if you don't even try."

You've always been the leader.  
But right now, right now you give up that post, and he takes it up for you.  
Because he can, because he gives a damn and you know it to be true.

Because he is Aiden, your best friend.

And shaking hands dial the numbers as the roads fly by you.

/ /

Spencer doesn't answer, though.

/ /

**TBC**


	36. memory thirty six

**Better. Mostly. Ah, who am I kidding? I think this is all crap, but what is in my mind is not always easy to translate. So, yea, suckage.**

/ /

You could say doorway. Or entrance. But threshold is infinitely more final - once you cross it, you know there's no going back.  
It is that place where women becomes wives, that line where discomfort becomes real pain.

To cross the threshold tonight is to not look back anymore.

You've looked back so many times - on the good times, on the better times - so far back that your neck aches and your vision grows blurry.  
And you've not looked forward, because how can there be anything ahead of you?

The future is for those willing to strive, willing to fight, willing to believe that there is more to this life than what's been shown.

It's been so long since you've believed in anything at all, though. You've forgotten the flavor of trust. You've let go of the need for faith.  
All your barriers are gone tonight, after all. You are open to all that's coming to you - arms hanging useless by your body as someone offers you a drink.  
And you take it. And you don't register the liquid down your throat, you just know it will take the edges away from your skin.

You don't want to bleed anymore.

You want to burn.

/ /

_"Paula...?"_

_If Spencer looks hard enough, she can see that voice. She can see moments in time that have that voice attached to it. Maybe she had lost track of the sound of it, the timbre and the slight gravely tone, but it rings out in the tense silence and Spencer remembers._

_Stories at night. A hand held. Warm embraces. A skinned knee and a kiss._

_Spencer remembers and her partial nakedness suddenly seems too much. She slowly picks up the shirt that Ashley had discarded, holding it loosely up to her chest._

_And his eyes flicker over, catch her desperate stare._

_She wills him to stay, to linger, to see._

_'Look at me look at me look at me...'_

_But as quickly as it happens, it is gone again._

/ /

The days pile up in you, turning into weeks. But it's been years, really, it's been years.

And this time, you head doesn't just swim. It sinks. You are sinking and you welcome the sensation. Tonight you won't close up and dance away. Tonight you won't say 'no'.

When the hands slink along your body, you push into them.  
When the lips get close, you bridge the gap between yourself and intention.  
When the bottle is empty, you take the refill.  
When the pill is placed in your hand, you caress it with your tongue.

The hours pile up in you, turning into forever.  
This is your forever, isn't it?

No happy ending. No knight in shining armor. No castle in the sky.

Forever is here, in a black room with flashing lights and the nameless and the shadows.

And you forget the rest of the world.

/ /

_"What's going on? ...Spence?"_

_She looks at her brother, eyes the exact shade as her own, and the air finally leaves her lungs. A sigh born of all that been held inside, coasting out into her bedroom._

_"Go back to bed, Glen. Your father and I will handle this."_

_And Spencer must seize up once more, fuse the steel to her bones, turn that spine to stone._

_Her mother's voice is commanding, in charge and not meant to be talked back to. Everyone cowers to it. Everyone bows to it.  
It's quite the trick - Spencer has tried and tried to master that ability herself and it never comes out right._

_Spencer still sounds like a child, putting her little foot down.  
Her mother's voice is still the law, the badge, the bars in jail._

_"But what's going __**on**__?"_

_And Spencer waits to see who will answer.  
Will it be her mother - filled up with holy shame and agony? Will it be her father - shrouded in quiet misery and impotence? Will it be God - a bolt from above and the fires below?_

_Or will it be Spencer, putting her foot down onto these wooden floors, half-dressed and broken and alone... Will she be the one to answer the question that's been hanging over this house and this family? Will she be the one to knock them all off this tightrope and not worry about where any of them will land?_

_"Go to bed, son."  
"But I-"  
"__**Glen**__. You heard your father."_

_But there is the cliff and Spencer can't make herself take flight._

_Glen looks over at her, begging for something - something she cannot even say to herself these days - and then he stomps away, hall thundering with his steps and then a door slamming._

_There is the cliff and Spencer backs away, angry at her own timidity - but, as always, enslaved by it. Just like the rest of them. Just like they want her to be.  
And where her actions were meant to be louder than words, they fall on deaf ears. And everything that they say or don't say just adds to the roar inside of her head._

_Until she cannot hear them.  
Until she cannot make it out alive._

/ /

You are so bold now, aren't you?

All that fear is gone. All that worry has just melted away. And maybe it is false, but you feel so much love right now, so much fucking love.

Someone says you are crying, though.

But, c'mon, love can make you cry... You know that better than anyone in the entire world.  
You know all about love and its traps, all about love and its sweet touches.  
You've never been in love, but you bet it feels just like this - just like the way the floor rolls under your feet and your lips just have to smile and this music pushes into your skull.

You think this might be love.  
But you wouldn't know, would you?

Love is this intangible thing, it slips through your fingers, and you thought you had it - once upon a time - you had it, didn't you?

And there, in and out of focus, you see her. Just for a second and you grin, because you've always wanted to grin at this girl, haven't you? You've always wanted to grin at this brown-haired girl under the lights.  
You don't know why exactly. You don't know and you don't care anymore.

She's beautiful and you know her name, in this deafening bowl of noise and with a million people swirling around you...

...You know her name.

/ /

"Ashley..."

/ /

So you say it out loud and you grin, just a bit, and then you let everything go.  
Let go of that war you've been waging. Let go of that childhood you've been missing.  
Let go of that rage you've been feeling. Let go of that family you've been chasing.

You let go.

And you are gone.

/ /

**TBC**


	37. memory thirty seven

She wasn't trying to be impolite or anything, she really wasn't.

But even as they laughed and even as they talked, her eyes would drift and then focus on that which neither of them would ever mention.  
And he would catch her, often, then he'd tug lightly on the sleeve of his shirt.  
That action didn't actually cover things, though.  
It just drew more attention.

And he'd tell a new joke. Or an old favorite.  
And she would laugh, it just wouldn't be as loud or as free.  
They would struggle out of the moment, him with humor and her with compliance.

All right with the world. Eventually.  
But not really.

At night, though, lying in her bed with those cool glow-in-the-dark stars up on her ceiling - the ones her mother got mad over, the ones her father shook his head over - Ashley would stare past A-to-B constellations and see Aiden's arm.

Like a nebula, that's what she had read about days ago, only in reverse.  
It is not a bright and colorful explosion against a canvas of black, not the bloom upon Aiden's skin. On Aiden, it is dark and deep, a mixture of blue and purple seemingly painted onto his lightly tanned flesh.

If she thinks about it this way, in her eleven year old mind, a bruise is kind of pretty.  
And she has to think about it this way, she has to.

Otherwise, she'd cry and Ashley hates crying over anything.  
Tears are for wussies, that much she knows.

/ /

She cried anyway.

/ /

Ashley doesn't believe in God.

If there is someone up there, floating in the clouds and watching out for people, then they suck at their job. They've taken too many sick days. They've gone on vacation and just didn't come back.

God would turn lies to truth and save a little anguish.  
God would shield those who need protection.  
God wouldn't cast someone out just because they aren't like everyone else.

So, there must not be a God, that's what Ashley believes.

But... maybe there's something. Something infinite and something profound, something you only catch out of the corner of your eye. And it makes you look.  
And it makes you turn around.  
And it makes you run when you thought you could only stand still.

/ /

"You okay?"  
"I... I don't know."

Aiden smiles softly at her and, in his eyes, Ashley sees a million stars.  
It gives her comfort. But then again, her friendship with him has always been a safe and steady hand to hold. It is changing, though, just like everything else.

They are shifting. They are exploding in quiet acceptance.

The club is loud around them, as they stand close and hold drinks that neither of them are drinking. And Ashley places her hand over her left jean pocket, hopes to feel a slight vibration, hopes to find a missed call or a voice-mail waiting.

But Spencer hasn't called back.  
And Ashley cannot drive down that lane, cannot knock upon that door.  
She tells herself that calling the number is enough.  
And, deep down inside, she knows that is nowhere near the truth.

"I'm not feeling this, Ash... Are you?"

And Ashley isn't. She doesn't know why they came here, why they walked into this familiar haunt, why they bought drinks that are just turning to watered-down versions of what they are meant to be.  
But then again, Ashley knows all the reasons why they are here.

They are here because this is where they have always gone.  
Some club. Some dive. Some room on the third floor.  
Some overlook. Some bedroom. Some basement with beer and free pot.

They could never just go home. Home doesn't exist - it is just a place they crafted in each other, in these actions, in this twilight world of bodies and games.

Where else could they go when everything is dissolving?

And she's about to reply, about to suggest they leave, about to bring her phone out and try to call Spencer again - even though it makes Ashley feel desperate and raw and exposed.  
But she's about to do all those things.

She just never gets the chance to.

Because, out of the corner of her eye, a shaft of blue light coasts across the crowded floor and illuminates a blonde wave of hair.  
And Ashley turns. And Ashley looks hard.

And she runs just as Spencer's body hits the ground.

/ /

**TBC**


	38. memory thirty eight

**I just don't know if I like this or not. Whatever.**

/ /

There are certain things you never want to hear, certain words that should never grace your ears, sentences that render you motionless and cut too close to the bone.

_"We're getting a divorce."  
"There's been an accident."  
"I'm sorry, there was nothing we could do..."_

No one wants to hear those words, the gradual slide from discomfort to utter despair.  
Those kinds of words hit you in the chest or punch you in the face.  
It's highly possible that they do both.

Certain words knock you out and there is no guarantee that you'll get back up again.  
No matter how tough you are. No matter how strong you might be.  
Muscles only save you from the physical.  
Nothing can save you from the emotional blows, from the mental kicks.

Especially if you aren't used to fighting.

Especially if you are only used to giving up.

/ /

_"Fuck... I... what do I __**do**__? Is she breathing? __**Shit**__, Aiden-"  
"Ash, we need to get help, okay?"_

It could be a dream, that's what Spencer thinks. Her eyes want to open, they really do, but they just won't. And she feels so fucking tired, arms and legs so heavy, she just wants to sleep.

Sleep and never wake up.

_"Help me, help me get her up... maybe if we just walk her around, get some water in her..."  
"Seriously, Ashley, we __**need**__ to get __**help**__. What if she is od'ing?"_

No, not a dream, that's what Spencer decides. More like a damn nightmare.  
And she can feel her heart start to beat faster, racing in her chest, pounding in her head.  
It is relentless and bordering on painful.

If only she could open her eyes. Open them and let everyone know she is fine.

She didn't die, despite all her trying.  
Because she was trying. Trying and failing, but that deserves an 'E' for effort.

_"I... I don't know... her parents... Spencer? Spencer, can you hear me? Jesus... __**say something**__, c'mon..."  
"Ash. __**Ash**__, behind you."_

Ash. Ashley. Oh, right, that's the girl... That's the girl and Spencer attempts to swallow and her tongue feels full and thick and it makes her want to choke.  
And then she feels sick to her stomach, like a ship is pitching her around in choppy waves.

It's a silly thought, really, but she doesn't want to throw up on Ashley.

_"Look, if you are going to clutter up the floor, I need to ask you to leave."  
"Hey, man, our friend here needs to get to a hospital-"  
"Not my problem, buddy, okay? If she's wasted, that's her deal."_

Spencer's head feels like it weighs a ton, even though she thinks it is not upright at all.  
She isn't sure how she is moving. She isn't sure of anything now.  
Only that her eyes just won't open. Only that Ashley is here. Only that she feels really fucking sick.

_"She needs __**help**__, you __**fucking asshole**__."_

That's Ashley, right? That's who Spencer hears so close by, that's the voice that has kept her up longer than need be, that's the last face she truly saw... some night... long long ago...  
In a house. In a bedroom. In front of her, with lips like the sweetest candy.

Ashley... the girl who said that it would all be okay.

It's only for a minute or two, but Spencer's eyes open and everything is blurry and her body is leaning to the side - quite out of her own control. And a face swims into view, someone she cannot make out yet, so Spencer blinks and blinks in hopes of clearing it all up.

"Spencer... Spencer, hey, stay with me... We are getting out of here, okay? I'll help you walk. Aiden, get the other side... Just **stay awake**, alright? **Please** stay awake..."

She is shaking and the chilled night air floods her lungs and all that swaying pushes her over the edge, the contents within her body rushing up and out.

And Spencer registers the smell, the feeling of the hard ground against her knees, heat coming from a hand to her back and a hand around her arm.

"Shh, it's okay... you're going to be okay... I **promise**... I promise, Spencer..."

And arms are holding her, holding her and making promises, promises that surely no one can keep. No one keeps their promises, Spencer knows this.  
She knows this all too well.

She knows, with each beat of her still living heart, she knows that people promise you the world and it is all lies and no one truly loves anyone else enough to mean what they say.

This is all Spencer knows.  
This is all she has **ever** known.

/ /

Still, there are words you so want to hear. Words you'd give **anything** to hear.

And when those words are finally said, you don't know whether to listen or to plug up your distrusting ears.

_"It's okay."_

/ /

And you want it to be true this time.

/ /

TBC


	39. memory thirty nine

_And she remembers.  
Like it was yesterday. Like it was just minutes ago and not hours, not months, not years._

_She remembers that initial inkling, that uncomfortable tickle at the back of her neck that told her that all things were about to change, change in ways that could never be undone._

/ /

And Spencer is not sure where she is, the night before bathed in darkness and only hints linger in her aching head.  
There is a shuddering breath and a sore throat to be found, though, telling a story that she might not want to know.

/ /

_She remembers the look in her mother's eyes, before Rebecca and before a sweet moment spiraled out into the gravest of mistakes, she remembers the look in those eyes._

_Eyes like her own, reflecting judgment back onto her gaze of fear.  
And it was fear, a tiny spark of terror that just grew and grew into a damn blaze... At least, that's what happened eventually._

/ /

But it is warm and it is quiet, wherever she is, eyes reluctant to open.  
Reluctant to see the damage caused, scared to know the havoc thrust upon herself.

Still, she can feel it, under the skin and in her blood... She can feel how close she came to oblivion. And Spencer isn't sure if she is glad or not that she didn't reach that goal.

/ /

_But she remembers that moment, etched into her mind forever, the day that her mother disappeared and became Paula Carlin instead.  
The day that Spencer lost herself, that first loose thread to start the unraveling.  
And there went her father.  
And there went her brother.  
And there went friendships and love and so many other things, important things and vital things - up in smoke, caught in the fire that she tried so desperately to put out, the fire that she ended up building into an inferno._

/ /

Slowly she turns from her side to her back, blasts of white-hot pain behind her forehead, cracking her eyes open and keeping them at slits.  
And the contours of this room seem familiar and not familiar at the same time.

Walls and chairs and shapes and shadows, hard to look at for long as her head continues to swim and she lays back down with a groan - even the pillow feeling too unforgiving amidst this agony.

/ /

_Of course, what Spencer remembers is nothing more than ashes now. Black and gray and burnt beyond recognition, the charred remains of a life, a memory._

_Nothing more than a beautiful memory, a dream she once believed in._

_A dream that has died._

/ /

And it comes flooding back now.

The numbness, going past mere nerves and bone, straight into her soul. The drinking, one after the other, until words left her lips in slurs, until she wasn't dancing anymore - she was falling into people and they were pushing her back.  
And the touching and the kissing and the tongues in her mouth, spit and sweat and shame, the combination drowning her.

But she **wanted **to drown. She **wanted **that oblivion.

And so that pill in her hand and that alcohol and those lights, they picked her up and became the embrace she longed for, a mother's hold and a father's hand.  
Those girls, all those girls, just a stand-in for what had been missing - she had always known this, but for some reason, it dug into her psyche last night and it killed her.

It killed her to be so fucking alone.  
Always alone. Always unloved. Always left behind.

/ /

_Nothing more than a memory, a made-up child, a lie to be glossed over, an affront to God, a disgrace... Nothing more than that, that's what she is now, nothing more._

/ /

The sheet gets clutched in her hand, tight and unyielding, face turning to the side and into the pillow below her.  
And they start softly, as they always do, trickling down her cheeks. But the sorrow runs too deep and it craves release and so she cries.

Body-jerking sobs, her back bending and curling inward, trying to escape herself and her unhappiness and her entire existence.  
She weeps in this bed that she might know, in this room that she might recognize, in this warm and quiet place - silent except for her tears.

Spencer doesn't really notice the bed dipping down. Nor does she acknowledge the tentative arm that goes around her stomach and the delicate press of a face near her own.  
She doesn't say anything to the breath that runs over her face, into her strands of hair.  
Spencer doesn't open her eyes again, not even to see the brown ones that are shattering in her honor.

She doesn't look once at her savior the whole time she is breaking down.

But she knows it is Ashley. And she doesn't pull away - she **can't **pull away.

And somewhere in all of this, Spencer remembers.

/ /

_You, across that room, and I grin at you.  
You, a voice bouncing around my brain.  
You, a calm touch and a promise... Oh, you made promises to me, didn't you?_

_You, Ashley Davies, I remember you._

/ /

Somewhere in all of this, Spencer remembers, and her hand moves with trepidation from the sheet to the hand placed against her side.

And she weaves their fingers together, grasping so strongly, holding on, just holding on.

/ /

_And you, Ashley Davies, you don't let go._

/ /

**TBC**


	40. memory forty

**All the chapters are small, of course, but this is tiny. Still, I wanted to update and this is a bit of a filler until holidays are over. So, cheers.**

/ /

The fragile things in life, delicate and tender and oh so easy to break, are the things that she does not have much experience in holding.

Her hands have been forced into a world of grasping, of gripping, of plundering, of thrusting.  
Or of a kind of crazy ignorance, where she reaches out and then doesn't know what to do with what she has found - see the wound and then slowly back away again.

Ashley doesn't know how to hold anyone.

But here she is, on her bed as the morning slips down into afternoon, with a girl in her arms.  
And when Spencer takes a breath, Ashley mirrors the action.  
And they breathe in tandem. And she can feel every inch of where their fingers are interlocked. And she can feel the subtle rise and fall of Spencer's body, air that expands the torso and pulls inward on the shoulders, back and forth like a weeping tide.

Ashley is afraid to close her eyes, afraid this is a dream, afraid that this isn't a dream at all.  
Afraid to let go and watch Spencer possibly slip away.  
Afraid to stay here and not know what happens next.  
Because what she admitted on Aiden's doorstep is a far cry from last night. Because what she did last night is a far cry from how she has been up to this point.

All the times she has turned around in the face of something terrible - a bruise, an audible slap, a cold look, a lie uncovered - and, suddenly, Ashley cannot force her gaze elsewhere.  
Suddenly, all Ashley can see is her own arm around Spencer and her inability to move away, her inability to speak. Not knowing if what she is doing is right or wrong, if it will help or hinder.

Ashley doesn't know how to hold anyone and make things better for anyone.

All the times she wanted to patch up Aiden and all the times she wanted to wipe that sheen of hatred from Christine's eyes and all the times she wanted to be held herself - Ashley has no template to draw upon when it comes to giving or receiving comfort.  
It's been a stuffed tiger. It's been drinking. It's been sex. It's been a moment or two of falling apart, then shoving that vulnerability under the proverbial rug.  
Comfort in flashes and gone before you know it - that's what Ashley knows.

And yet, for all she does not know and cannot fully understand, here she is.  
On her bed as the afternoon fades into the evening, not a word said and the sorrow dying down to ragged breaths, with Spencer in her arms.

And Ashley must know more than she lets on.

Because buried beneath all her indifference was the instinct that made her run and catch Spencer before the blonde girl hit the floor. Instinct caused her to make promises no one should ever make. Instinct prompted her to take Spencer to the safety of her bed once more and instinct told her to embrace this broken girl, even when Ashley is no more than a shattered child herself.

Ashley must have been waiting, all this time, for someone she could hold.

And someone who, maybe, can return the favor someday.

/ /

**TBC**


	41. memory forty one

You'll always remember her that way - curls of brown hair falling into her smiling face, fingers picking up white rocks and tossing them into the yard, without care for the mower blades to come, and how quickly your sadness disappeared when she held her hand out towards you.

One pinkie held aloft and ready for a promise.

That's how you will always remember her, as the days roll onward and only your face is found looking back, that's how you'll remember your best friend.

And that's what she'll be, you know?  
Always a good friend, always the best kind of friend, always the one who would wake you up when you thought it best to stay asleep and hidden, always the one who giggled over your stupid jokes, always the little girl who got you to act more like a real boy - she brought you to life, didn't she, Pinocchio?  
She turned your lifeless doll world upside-down and made you whole.

Well, as whole as you ever could be.  
As whole as you ever could be, until you were ready to make your own kind of promises - to yourself, for yourself. Until you were ready to be on your own.

And you don't know how ready you are to stand up and be counted, but it is happening anyway. It is happening, as you knew it would and as you always feared it would.

She's leaving.  
You are leaving.

And the world, as you have known it, is ending.

/ /

Another doorstep, but this time in the dying daylight and this time it is Ashley's house.  
And Aiden can see how tired the girl is, a helpless kind of ache around her eyes, but Ashley's feet keep going one direction and then turn and go the other way.

Like a guard protecting the palace, a fretful pacing as she works out how to be this 'new' Ashley. And Aiden wonders if Ashley sees the changes, if she recognizes the shift within - and without. If she knows that, after today, nothing will be the same.

"I... don't know exactly what to do... I mean, she **seems **okay, like no more throwing up or anything like that. She's asleep right now and I just... I mean, I **know** she can't go home, Aiden... and she just can't roam around, not after last night..."

And she talks like this for a minutes on end, rambling and second-guessing and venting. And each step brings a fresh burst of weary words, of worried half-glances up towards her bedroom window, of hands in and out of pants pockets.

When she finally collapses beside him on the steps, a sigh breaks out past her lips and her eyes shut.

"I'm no good at this, Aiden. I don't know what the hell I was thinking, bringing her here... I don't know what the fuck I am thinking or feeling or** anything**." Ashley says in a whisper, just like that other confession, soft tone for tender feelings, for raw emotions, for the unexplainable and the inevitable.

And when did he become the one to see things clearly? And when did Ashley become the lost one, the one flailing?

"Just keep doing what you've been doing, Ash."  
Ashley sort of laughs, a self-inflicted bit of nervousness and derisiveness.  
"What? Telling her everything will be okay and not knowing the first thing about making that happen?"  
Aiden keeps his gaze trained ahead, but a small smile coasts over his lips.  
"Yea, that sounds about right."  
She sighs again and this time it is less tired, more frustrated.  
"But that's not enough. Words aren't** fucking **enough. They don't stop bad things from going on, from hurting someone... They're just fucking **words**, Aiden..."

And he can hear the sadness in her voice, can hear how close she is to breaking down, can hear how much she does not want to show this side of herself - to him, to her parents, to Spencer. Aiden can hear the trembling of that wall inside of his best friend and the only thing he can do, the only thing he wants to do, is help her tear it down - for good.

"Ash." He says quietly, pulling his eyes from the street opposite the two of them and to the side of her face, catching the faintest glimmer of sunlight as it glistens on a wet trail down her cheek. And she won't look at him, but he knows she is listening. He knows she is waiting for him to be the one this time, the one with the answers and the courage and the ability to pick her up and send her on her way.

"Words mean someone at least gives a shit, Ashley. And even if you hadn't said anything at all to her, you got her out of that club and you took her somewhere safe and... and actions can mean everythingto someone... you know?"

And Aiden knows that Ashley can read between the lines. He can see it along her profile, the tightening of her jaw and the sucking in of her bottom lip and the silent tears that continue to fall even as neither of them truly acknowledge their presence.

"Remember the day we first met?" Aiden questions aloud and Ashley allows a vague nod of her head to confirm that she does remember.  
"I was** so **embarrassed and my mother was **so** angry at me and I just knew that I'd come outside and find you gone. You were my first friend, you know? And I just knew that after... after what you had seen, that's you'd go home and never come back."

And, just like that, they are back at Aiden's house - five years old and kidding around and Aiden feels the heat of shame coat his body and Ashley can see thin hands gripping a little boy's arms.  
And, just like that, Ashley's crying is no longer removed and a sob barrels out of her.  
And, just like that, Aiden grabs one of Ashley's hands and laces their fingers together.

"I couldn't h-help you, I couldn't do a **damn** t-thing... You're my best friend and I j-just let you... I let them h-hurt you, I let them **hurt you**..."

Aiden finds the hold he has on Ashley's hand to grow more firm and his own eyes seem to sting with tears that have waited forever to fall.  
But his head shakes side to side, answering Ashley first with a motion as the words soon catch up and leave his mouth.

"No, Ash, you gave me **everything**. You were my friend and... and you made me happy, you made me laugh... You would push me and push me, sometimes hard, but... but you taught me how to live. No one else cared, Ashley, but **you did**. I always knew you did. And I'll** always **know that... and that's why you can do this now, with her, with Spencer. If you **want** to be there for her, then just... just **be there **for her... Like you were there for me."

And Ashley crumbles before his eyes, years of pent-up grief coming to the surface and years of guilt that was never hers to carry pouring out of her.  
Aiden gathers her up, though. Maybe for the last time in this world, the world that was just the two of them and their make-believe family with one another.

But she'll always be his best friend, the one who showed up when all others failed to even try, and Aiden will always remember Ashley Davies like this.

One pinkie held aloft and ready for a promise.

And that promise was kept.

/ /

**TBC**


	42. memory forty two

Do what you've been doing, right?

But you've never done any of this - you've gotten close to those in pain and then faded away, you've watched a friend suffer and you never spoke up. You just handed over drinks and you drove him around and you pushed him out the window and hoped that you were not the reason for skinned knees, for broken bones, for a messed-up heart.

And you know it is down to those parents - his, yours, hers - how they don't care and they won't see and they can't seem to realize that love is more than a big house, more than baubles on a winter morning, more than God up in the sky.  
Love is this thing that permeates every inch of the atmosphere, slips into ever nook and cranny of the world, and you can feel traces of love everywhere.

And you can feel when it is absent, too.

Do what you've been doing, right?

As you take on the mantle of caring for another wayward soul, hoping that compassion rolls down into your own chest and into your own battered recesses, hoping that you figure out the secret to living along the way.  
And you watch him drive away and your teeth bite down hard on your bottom lip to stop from crying out, to stop from calling him back and begging him to stay.  
You've never done this, you've never said what needed to be said and you've never done what needed to be done, not in all this time.

You've gotten close. And then you have felt the fear - of those things you didn't want to know, of those things you know all too well - so you'd start another party, find another girl, take another sip.  
But nothing ever made you forget. You can't forget and maybe that's your curse, maybe that's your blessing... Maybe that is all your are, right now as you step back into your house and your father's eyes follow you up those stairs and he doesn't know how to call out to you and you don't know how to forgive him.

Maybe all that you are, right now, is a body made up of memories. And life, that scary fucking life of yours, starts the second you see her eyes looking back at you.

And doing what you've been doing? Well, that's just the beginning, right?

/ /

"I should go now."

But Ashley doesn't quite believe the words cradled by Spencer's voice. And those blue eyes tell her that Spencer doesn't quite believe those words either.

Still, it makes sense to want to leave. Ashley isn't sure how to go about this, how to be a shoulder that does not shrink away, how to offer up more than a fuck or a random show of kindness. And Spencer, disheveled and pale and bare feet pressed against the floor, she doesn't look like someone who wants to run. But the girl doesn't look like someone who knows how to stay, how to allow a steady stream of comfort to cover her, how to ask for help or to plead for more.

Still, Ashley's feels her own hand flex and she can see Spencer's hand shift upon the bed, both of them holding on to each other even as they stand apart.  
That is what gives Ashley the confidence to near the edge of this precipice, to think that if she jumps she just might fly instead of fall.  
To think that if she reaches out, Spencer will reach out in return and they might save one another.

"Then we should both go." Ashley states in the increasing darkness of her bedroom, back leaning against the door, more for support than to seem casual.  
And Spencer's gaze moves to the floor, those fingers turn to fists and that comforter becomes wrinkled under the grip - so tight, afraid to let go and afraid to need the security - and Ashley pushes off the door and holds her breath and moves closer.  
"Where?" Spencer questions and the tone of her voice is lost, is bitter, is hollow.  
And Ashley wants to replace that bitter with sweet, wants to show Spencer that she is now found. She wants to see into those eyes again, catch onto every path within them and follow each one until the very end.

And suddenly she is breathing all too hard, standing next to Spencer's seated form, with her own hands aching to touch and caress and protect and a million other things.  
Things she doesn't know how to do. Things she has never done for anyone.  
But, for Spencer, she wants to do all of these things.

_And more, and so much more..._

"Anywhere, Spencer... As long as it is you and I, together, we can go anywhere."

/ /

You don't know what you doing, do you?  
You don't know where this road will lead and you don't know how to wipe away the tears and you don't know how to tell someone to be better when you are no good at getting better yourself.

But you've been nothing but memories until now.

And you are ready to live a little. You are ready to feel something. You are ready to** feel**.

Her hand, there in the darkness, tentatively flutters into your own.

And you feel it.  
You feel it and you don't run away and you don't play it off.

You feel her all around you and you believe it to be love, filling up the empty spaces, and it almost makes you weep, it almost brings you to your knees.

Love and its absence.  
Love and its return.

And neither of you know what you are doing, do you?

But, with each other, you are about to learn.

/ /

**TBC**


	43. memory forty three

It's the middle of the night and that's when life changes, when stars explode and the dust scatters, when fears come out to play, when tears like to fall.

But you wept all through the morning.  
And the sadness has ebbed away for now, even though you know it will return.  
It always returns.  
Still, your eyes are dry and it is the middle of the night and you don't know where you are going. You don't even truly know the person carrying you away, this girl beside you and behind the wheel of this car you've laid down in, tires relentless and calm on the highway.

And the little girl in you says this is running away, just without a stick and sack over your shoulder, a female Huckleberry Finn. And the rest of you is trying to not think about anything at all, no thought to how close you came to killing yourself or how far you've fallen from a mother's expectations or how you might never come home again.

Because there has to be a home to come back to and you've not had that for a while.

And it's the middle of the night.  
That's when demons make a play for one's soul, that's when touches stray and turn into more, that's when people tend to ask those big questions and when people tend to give serious answers.

But this girl, hands at ten and two and eyes only glimpsed within the lights of oncoming traffic, this girl didn't ask. And she didn't plead. And she didn't demand.  
This girl, with her wavy hair and soft skin and with her words haunting your mind, this girl didn't do anything other than stay close.  
Stay close and put an arm around you and listen to you cry.  
Stay close and make promises and let you hold onto her.

And you've not had a home to come back to, but maybe with this girl...

Maybe now you do.

/ /

_Spencer hears voices downstairs and her feet say to go, to head back down that familiar path and back to the trouble that awaits her.  
Punishment in a pair of blue eyes, worse than any judgment from on high - God comes down in Paula Carlin's voice, of that Spencer is sure._

_And her feet say to go, go now, go while you can._

_Because for all her sorrow and all her familial pain, staying here with Ashley Davies is more terrifying right this second.  
Because that hand was firm in her own, because that arm was not a figment of Spencer's imagination, because Ashley said things that no one has said in a long damn time and some tiny part of Spencer actually believes the girl._

_And that is scarier than even a mother's wrath and a father's confusion right now._

_And her feet say to go as one of those voices grows louder and then dies, leaving this house in an eerie silence. She tries to command her legs to shift and stand and flee.  
She tries, but maybe not hard enough.  
She tries, but maybe it is only a half-hearted attempt._

_She tries, but not really._

_Because for all her fear, Spencer needs __**someone**__.  
Spencer needs someone and Ashley... Ashley is it, even if it doesn't make sense and they don't really know one another._

_They know each other more than either of them can fathom._

_And that is scary. And that is monumental.  
And that's why her body does not listen, that's why she stays there on Ashley's bed with her bare feet on the floor. That's why when Ashley returns and grabs her hand, Spencer says nothing and just follows._

_Maybe she is tired of being alone.  
Maybe she is tired of the self-loathing and wants someone else to take charge.  
Maybe she is a lot of things, a lot of weary things and a lot of agony-sized things and a lot of fairy tales gone horribly wrong._

_Or maybe this is just her only chance, in the middle of the night, to rescue whatever is left of her life, of her soul._

_And, for once, she's going to take that chance._

/ /

It's the middle of the night and you don't know where you are or where you are going.

But this girl is with you, like she said she would be, and you didn't think you had much left inside when it came to trust.

Still, maybe you do.

Maybe, with this girl and this moment of escape, you'll find your world exploding and the cosmos will scatter and... one day... one day...

You'll be new again.

/ /

_Ashley is at the pump and then motioning to the gas station, walking quick under florescent lights. And Spencer watches the girl go, watches other automobiles pull up and pull away, watches the head-lights blur past them on the highway._

_And she wonders if anyone will miss her, if anyone will notice she is gone. Will her father look for that curious girl and wonder where she went? Will her brother walk softly down the hallway, afraid to wake a sister up - even though she is gone?  
Will her mother still be on her knees, Paula in all her holy glory, praying for a child that could have been loved better?_

_The phone is out of her pocket before she has registered the action, dialing quiet and fast.  
Her head says this is pointless, like inviting the killer into your house.  
Then again, it's her heart that causes the most damage - in its endless wanting, in its endless grieving, in its endless presence no matter how hard she hits it._

_"Spence? Are you okay?" Glen does not answer with a bland 'hello', opting for the hushed tones of concern.  
"I'm okay, Glen... I'm, uh... I am going out of town, I think. With a friend."  
"What friend? Does Mom or Dad know? Why are you leaving?"_

_His questions rush about her brain and she cannot stand to hear them, cannot stand to conjure up the answers. What can she say anyway? Has the truth been told already, painted in the colors of sin?_

_"Just a friend and no one knows, just you... And keep it that way, alright?"  
"What's going on with you, Spence? Why won't anyone just tell me what the __**fuck**__ is going on?"_

_He sounds worried and he sounds scared and he sounds mad.  
And Spencer wonders where this brother has been all this time. Where was his protection when she desperately needed it? Why do the questions come now as she has reached the end of her rope?_

_And she is laughing softly, too wiped out to cry anymore, but the frustration and the anger needs to be released somehow._

_"Spence, please-"  
"Glen... Glen, I'm gay.  
"...What?"  
"You were there, okay? You saw that... You saw my __**friend**__, Ashley, leave that night and you saw what happened after. __**That's**__ what is going on. That's what is wrong with me, with our parents, with everything."_

_He is silent, as Spencer suspected he would be and as Spencer hoped he would not be.  
He is silent and she catches Ashley heading back towards the car and there is nothing left to say - not to Glen and not to Paula and not to her father._

_With that one admittance, Spencer has said it all and that shell of herself cracks and crumbles and hits the ground like thunder in the sky._

_"I've got to go." Spencer says softly, shutting her cell phone. And she grips it hard, for just a second, before shoving it back into her pocket._

_And Ashley is there, buckling her seat-belt and handing over a bottle of water._

_"Not long now... okay?" Ashley says, in between a statement and an inquiry.  
And Spencer barely nods her head, but she does reply.  
"Okay."_

_And they watch each other, for just a moment, then the engine starts up and they merge with every other traveler and disappear._

/ /

**TBC**


	44. memory forty four

There was that one day, where her arms encircled him and held him close and pushed the stickiness of sweets off his cheeks. And then down he went, face clean and a smile beaming from his lips.  
Her hand, soft but strong, nudged him back out of the kitchen and his feet happily carried him outside once more.

He had never been picked up like that, like a boy should be, like a child needs to be.

But Marissa had done those things, so effortlessly, and she was forever lodged in Aiden's heart. Like Ashley, Marissa was family by choice, not by blood. Her caring didn't come from the paycheck passed along - it came from somewhere within the woman's soul, the kind of compassion that money cannot buy.

That's why it kind of wounded Aiden when she finally left. That's why Ashley took him to the movies and got him drunk and tried to get him to forget for a while.

Of course, forgetting is a luxury that even the Dennison's cannot afford.

And there were so many nights, after Ashley had gone, when Aiden would stare long at the light from the hallway - another secret, another crutch - and he'd try to remember the feeling of someone loving him as a kid.

And it felt like Marissa's arms around him, like her fingertips against his cheek, like her indulgent smile as he would scamper away.

Of course, forgetting isn't all it is cracked up to be, too.

Sometimes a memory is all that will get you through the night.

/ /

Aiden listens to the phone ring and ring.  
And the seconds spent waiting are filled with the rapid thoughts of a guy not used to asking for, a guy not familiar with these new actions of stepping up and taking responsibility for himself.

He wants to call Ashley. She's always been his go-to number, the one at the window and the force at his back, but their time is over.  
They wrapped each other up in order to survive, never knowing that the bond would have to break in order to truly live.

He wants to call Ashley. And that is the very reason why he won't do so.

"Hello?" The person that answers sounds groggy and that's when Aiden remembers what time it is, how late it is, how he should have held off until morning and how he could have done this in a million other ways.

Still, right there in his father's study with a lock that he jimmied open and two hastily packed bags by his feet, Aiden dives into the deep end and stays underwater and finally opens his eyes.

"Marissa?" He asks, but he knows it is her. He'd know the woman's voice anywhere. After all, it was the only one that ever greeted him as he woke up and sent him to slumber.  
"Yes? Who is this?"  
"It's Aiden Dennison... uh, I need... I need your help."

/ /

**TBC**


	45. memory forty five

"Ashley...? What are you doing in here?"  
"Looking for something."  
"Such as?"  
"The keys to the beach house."  
"Why?"  
"Because I am going there."  
"With that friend of yours I guess?"

Her eyes flicker over, just the once, and her shoulders tense, just a bit. But she does not answer and returns her focused gaze to the desk drawers.  
The contents of her father's life against her fingers - address books and old receipts and random notes, photographs that mean nothing, pencils and pens and letters still sealed - the contents of her father's reality and of her father's lies.

This is where she found out about her mother.  
The real one, that is.

"And I suppose you weren't going to ask myself or your mother for permission, hmm?"

But she just ignores him.  
Because she isn't going to ask for permission. She hasn't asked for permission in a long time, not for the drinks stolen and not for the sex had and not for the nights where she doesn't come home at all.  
And the words he speaks are right, as if they were written in a script, but they come too late and they come with not enough honesty to back them up.

If he cared, he would be wanting her to ask for permission all the time.  
If he cared, he would lock the doors and bar the windows.  
If he cared, he would plead for her to tell him what is wrong.  
And then he'd have to apologize, over and over, until she could believe him.

But she finds what she is looking for, three silver keys upon a ring, and stuffs them into her jeans pocket. She barely spares him a glance as she passes by him.  
And that could have been it, you know? That could have been just another moment in a long list of moments, where a father fails - again - and a daughter stays silent - again.

His grip is firm, though, snaking around her wrist. And the way she seizes up is telling, torn between wanting to struggle and strike out at him... and wanting to tremble, wanting to crumble.  
Always there, beyond the anger, is the sorrow.  
Always there, beyond the present, is the past.

"You can't keep doing this, Ashley. You can't keep taking off and not telling anyone, not telling **me**."

She keeps her face turned away. She closes her eyes. She shakes from the inside and it feels like the air is overwhelming her lungs, too much and too quick.  
But she forces the words out, feels them cut along her throat and wound her tongue.

"Why does it matter to you?"  
"It has** always **mattered."  
"Then you have a funny way of showing it."

That's when her eyes flash in his direction and his grip tightens in response.  
It is not to hurt, she knows this much, it is the hold of fear.  
As if he knows the source of her agony, as if he has found out without asking, as if he knows why they cannot find one another anymore.

"I'm showing it **now**."

And she jerks her arm away at that statement, storming off as fast as she can, but he follows. And his voice gets louder in the foyer, bouncing off these pricey walls, drawing the attention of Christine from the living room.  
And Ashley looks briefly at the woman, the woman who lost faith in Raife Davies as well, but they cannot seem to find solace in each other.  
Ashley is the reminder of infidelity and, for Christine, that is all the girl will ever be.  
And all Christine can ever be for Ashley is a remembrance of that unreal childhood, of deception wrapped up in pretty paper.

"You can't keep shutting me out, Ashley! I do love you, I love you **so** much... I wanted you to have it all and never know-"

That's when she snaps. That's when the hammer in her hand decides to come down, heavy with all she does know and all that she has learned and all that she cannot deny.

"Never know about **my mother**, is that it? Is that what you tried **so hard **to keep from me? The both of you, you fucking **liars**-"  
"Ashley, please,** listen **to me-"  
"**No**! No listening and no talking and no more of this** bull-shit**! You **lied** to me, all this time, and you would have kept it from me for the rest of my life if I hadn't found out. But I know everything now and I don't give a **fuck** what you have to say."  
"Ashley... Ashley,** please**-"

She wants to break-down. She can feel it building up inside of her, a tidal wave of tears, but she forces them back. She wants to bolt out the door and she probably would, if not for Spencer upstairs in her room.  
She wants to call Aiden and he'd offer a drink, offer his arm, offer his smile.  
Or they'd have a party and she'd fuck all night and wake up with a headache and sore limbs.  
It wouldn't make her forget.  
It would just distract her for a while longer.

But there are keys in her pocket and there is a girl up in her room, a girl who needs her and who Ashley needs as well. And Aiden cannot save her this time, cannot be the rock for her to lean on. Ashley has to learn how to stand on her own.  
All this time, thinking of how strong she was to suffer the coldness and thinking how tough she was to know the truth and not reveal it, but that was just her own version of reality.  
She wasn't strong. She was hiding.

Ashley doesn't want to hide anymore.

/ /

You are not impervious, though.

Because to stop hiding means that you can be found. No more shadows for you. No more nameless girls and strobe-light faces. No more ghosts drowning in a bottle of beer.

And that wave creeps up on you, sitting here in the relative silence of this gravel driveway and the ocean just over the dunes, that wave surrounds you in the seat of your car.

And you look at Spencer, eyes shut and body tuck in, asleep with blonde hair strewn over her face. And you stare at the girl, stare until it is hard to see because you are crying.  
You are sobbing as quietly as you can, falling apart with no one to see you, wanting to keep those personal burdens only on your shoulders. Still trying to cover up the cracks. Still trying to hide.

You are not impervious, though.  
You are not an island and, truth is, you never wanted to be.  
That's why you love Aiden, why you needed his friendship, why you were willing to rush in and pick the boy up.  
He needed a family and so did you. Neither of you wanted to be alone.

Spencer doesn't want to be alone.

No one wants to be alone.

And you cry harder, because you've been so alone and so hurt and so fucking sad.  
And you cry harder, because you hear Spencer shift in her seat and you don't know how to stop these tears, you don't know what she'll make of you now.

You are not impervious, though.

Because all it takes to give that pain a voice is a pair of arms slipping around you and you are found. Spencer has found you just as you once found her.

And you wail into her chest and she holds you more firmly and, somewhere inside your heart, you know that this is the strongest you have ever been.

/ /

**TBC**


	46. memory forty six

**Small, I know. But I am finally home after a stint of alternate reality, so this is as good as it is going to get.**

/ /

If you close your eyes, you can see another time.

And isn't that what we all do? Shut away the reality and latch on to a previous existence, stare out at those water-color moments from our past and turn them into something better...

Something closer to what you always wanted and less like what it truly was.

/ /

When Spencer closes her eyes, she sees a family that adores her and doors that do not slam in her face and cruel games are just a figment of her over-active imagination.

When Ashley closes her eyes, she sees a family that needs her and fiction is just a storybook at night and all those blown kisses from her father do not come with lies attached.

When Aiden closes his eyes, he sees a family that wants him and attention isn't something earned with silence and every touch is gentle instead of brutal.

/ /

_Her feet are wet and sand sticks to the soles, but she'll flutter her way up the wooden walk-way and she'll barrel through the door. Her mother chastises, but they all know a maid will clean it up after they leave._

_The kitchen, windows thrown open, smells like the sea. And as she darts past her mother, she recognizes sun-tan lotion and something else, something clear but strong in a glass.  
Rounding the corner, though, thrusts her into the realm of her father - cigar smoke and after-shave - on the couches and against the walls.  
She loves each and every fragrance, loves that it means this is home for a while._

_But it is her own room, caught up in every color of the rainbow, that she loves the most.  
The trail of clean sheets and tiny parcels of lavender, with the salty breeze blowing through the curtains - that is the scent of perfection. Even the sunlight, marking out spots with almost unbearable heat, has an essence all its own._

_The sun smells like joy. Like freedom. Like the best of everything._

_It blinds the worries that niggle at the back of her mind. It blocks away the doubts that linger.  
It makes her mother seem more at ease. It makes her father seem more present._

_It allows Ashley to be thirteen instead of anxiously ancient._

/ /

It is the moon that Spencer looks up at as Ashley tries one key then another, trying to coax the lock to open. And they do not talk about anything as they finally walk into the somewhat stuffy house, as Ashley feels around for a light switch and is only able to find one for the porch.

Spencer doesn't mention the embrace they just shared or the tears that Ashley just shed or all the trouble they are trying to outrun.

Ashley doesn't bring up the fact that they have fled the scene of every crime committed against them.

And every crime they have committed against others.  
And even those crimes committed against each other.

They don't talk, though, not now. Ashley reaches out silently and Spencer takes the girl's hand in her own, the two of them toeing off shoes as they move through quiet hallways and as they leave behind the only light on.

Stairs creak with the lack of recent use as they go up and up, shadows rippling along wallpaper with each passing glance of the beach below, and Spencer keeps flickering her gaze to the shafts of moonlight. The way it coats things in silver - the edge of a step, the glass pane, a curl of Ashley's hair - and her hand flexes involuntarily, holding onto Ashley a bit tighter.  
Ashley merely returns the favor, as if it were the most natural thing ever, and those fingers weave with Spencer's easily. They form a kind of physical representation of the bond that is building between them - instinctual and sure and a beacon in a world of darkness.

And they don't talk.

Ashley pulls Spencer into one of the rooms, letting go only to open a balcony door and let fresh air in, then they are clasped together again.  
Then they are dissolving with the rest of the night, crashing down upon a bed made for one, and this isn't about sex. Maybe it never was.  
But all stories have to start somewhere. Maybe that is how their story had to start, with make-believe and masks and a room painted in fantasy.

This isn't about sex, though. Not now.

They hold hands and they fall asleep, breathing in time and one beat of the heart for another, knowing that there will be plenty of days to sort out the mess left behind and there will be plenty of time to figure out the concerns on the proverbial doorstep.

Not now, though.

Now is all about this - the two of them - and nothing else.

/ /

**TBC**


	47. memory forty seven

"Do you want to talk?"  
"Not really."  
"...Yea. Me neither."

/ /

You wonder if it is your attachment to the past that hinders you so much. Much more than what has happened to you - worse than the ignorance, more destructive than drinks and damning evidence.

You wonder what would happen if you just let it all go. Let go of this anger and let go of this pain and let go of this need for things to be perfectly fake. What would happen if you were no longer tethered to this agony?

You wonder if you can run before you can walk. You wonder if you can fly instead of run.

/ /

"Let's play a game."  
"...Okay. Like what?"  
"We can pretend... we can pretend that I met you like every other girl meets someone. Maybe I saw you around school or at some boring football game..."  
"And I saw you, too, didn't I?"  
"You sure did."  
"And I didn't know your name, but... but I wanted to know it. I wanted to know you."

/ /

You wonder if God really watches you at all, if holy eyes keep track of your actions. Are you really being weighed upon heavenly scales? Are you just the sum of your parts or are you a whole person - does God know you meant more than you ever said, more than you did?

You wonder what it would feel like to say it all out loud. Say those words you've kept silent, talk until you cannot breathe, speak the unspoken language of your heart and your truth. What would it feel like to be honest and not care about the ramifications?

You wonder if you can run before you walk. You wonder if you can fly instead of run.

/ /

"And I wanted to know you, too. So... I walk up to you one day and I talk to you."  
"It's a good conversation. I don't want it to end."  
"I talk to you every day after that."  
"And I never get tired of hearing your voice. I even dream of you at night..."  
"...And I dream of you."

/ /

You wonder if this is love or just a case of mending what is broken.  
And you wonder if these facts matter at all.

Does it matter how the affection comes, what package it dresses up in and what method is used to deliver it? Does the nature of the medicine matter to the wound?

You wonder if you can walk. You wonder if you can run. You wonder if you can fly.

/ /

"I wonder if..." But Ashley isn't sure how to finish her thought, their faces so close and yet not touching, their hands still locked - to the point of seemingly being one entity, flesh merging and stitching up invisibly.  
Spencer's eyes study Ashley's face, over and over the lines like a painter pours over a portrait, and she knows that this game is over.

It was never truly started.

"I wonder, too." Spencer replies softly, tugging her fingers loose but staying near. A palm to move now, up Ashley's bare arm and then resting against the shoulder.  
Ashley blinks slowly and feels the heat penetrate her bones and she aches to lean forward.  
Not to kiss. But to kiss.  
Not to initiate something. But to do just that, to begin again.

This isn't a room. This isn't a party. This isn't a game. This isn't pretense, but then it never was.  
Not since Spencer opened those eyes and not since Ashley looked into them.  
And Ashley slides over and her arm naturally goes around Spencer's waist, then she sighs because they do not need to begin again.

The two of them have already started.

Spencer doesn't push her away.

Spencer pulls her in.

/ /

And, for now, you stop wondering about anything at all.

/ /

**TBC**


	48. memory forty eight

He sits there and wonders what she must see, long legs kept motionless and arms self-consciously crossed. He sits there and wonders what she must think, a boy she left behind now on her couch as the hour turns from merely late to decidedly too early.  
He sits there and wonders why this woman couldn't have been his mother, wonders who he pissed off in another life to earn this present world - a place where family is fiction and love is a mirage.

Aiden sits there and wonders why the tears fall again.

And he wonders why he waited so long to reach out to someone as Marissa slowly brushes her fingers over his cheek, taking his sadness with her caring touch.

/ /

_These nightmares look like stretched out photographs, faces distorted and blurry, but you suspect with a child's wary knowing that you know all the shadows in your head._

_But she turns on the light and you watch it burn until you eyes cannot stay open._

_Tomorrow, there will be pancakes. Tomorrow, there will be Ashley. Tomorrow. You cling to  
tomorrow, an invisible blanket to bury yourself in. Because the here and now, with darkness and bad dreams and the sting of a pain that won't go away, is scaring you._

_You are scared, too._

_You know the sound of doors shut too loudly. You know the sound of your mother's shoes on the floor, stomping down your meager amount of boyish confidence like leaves from a tree._

_You are a mass of fear._

_But she turns on the light. And you watch it burn until you fall into a fitful sleep._

_There is tomorrow, though._

_You've still go tomorrow._

_And tomorrow has to be better, right?_

/ /

"Aiden, what... what are you doing here?"

Her hand, as sure as all those years before, stays on his cheek. It stays there and every old impulse jumps into Aiden's body, ancient neediness that he has tried to push back with false growth and pretend control.

He doesn't feel like an almost-adult, a guy who used a room to ignore all that has been wrong.

He feels like a child, a scared damn child, and he needs someone.

"I... I need someone to care... and I thought... I remembered you and how you treated me and I j-just... I-I just wanted..."

They are endless now, silent and steady sorrow slipping from his eyes. But there is no shame. It is too late to feel embarrassed, too late to feel less of a man, too late to make-believe that he feels nothing at all.

Aiden is nothing but emotion on this couch, on Marissa's couch as the night gives way to a still dark morning. And he needs more than Ashley. Aiden even needs more than himself.

Aiden needs those nightmares to finally be erased.

And maybe Marissa remembers him, too. Maybe she recalls his face, a shy smile and an unruly head of black hair and the faint red reminder of what a mother's love should not look like on boy's skin.

Maybe Marissa never forgot, too.

Maybe that is why she swallows her the rest of questions and sits down beside him, on her couch in the early hours of the day, and puts her arms around him.

/ /

Because tomorrow has to be better.

Right?

/ /

**TBC**


	49. memory forty nine

_Her eyes catch onto you quickly, a flash of acknowledgment and a rush of anger, so you run as fast as you can. Past the kitchen and down the hallway, sunlight heating up your young skin, you run as fast as you can from the things you cannot understand._

_You don't want to understand her._

_You don't want to know why she hates you._

_So you run, bare feet squeaking on polished floors as you turn corners quick and skid to a stop at the french doors. Out of breath, little fingers reaching out and turning the knobs and that sunlight envelopes you._

_"Hey, kiddo... what's the hurry?"_

_Your father stands behind you, sure hand to your heaving shoulder and he gives a tiny squeeze, one that makes you squirm a bit - not from shyness, but it kind of tickles.  
He knows this and grins at your upturned face._

_This place makes her harder but it trims away his sharp edges._

_This place gives him up and he is yours for a change._

_Your father, in a rare show of abandon, picks you up and carries you to the beach - holds you aloft, treats you like Superman, helps you chase the tide.  
And you wonder why it can't always be like this. You wonder why he can't always be this man, this person, this parent. You wonder what the darkness is in his eyes and along your mother's fixed frown._

_Maybe it is like the monster you swore lived in your closet when you were four years old.  
Maybe it is like the way Aiden's mother snarls from the shadows.  
Maybe you are not meant to know these things that haunt your family._

_Maybe you don't want to ever learn the truth._

/ /

Ashley stares for a long minute or two at Spencer's fingers.

They are flared out like a pretty fan, each delicate digit upon Ashley's arm is neither holding nor letting go, and there is a warmth there that goes beyond surface contact.

It feels a lot like being safe.

Then Ashley's gaze drifts up and away, past Spencer's sleeping face and to the walls of this room. It is her bedroom, slightly musty and still with random posters tacked onto the wall. And she knows that behind her will be toys she used to play with - horses still in motion, dolls still smiling, cars just waiting to be driven - all of it strewn over the floor.

All of it left behind as though Ashley were just there, as if it has not been years since she has been here but simply days.

This room is weighted down with the past and it could be enough to smother Ashley.  
It could be enough to choke her and leave her for dead.  
But then she flicks her eyes downward again, back to that hand light against her skin, and the pressure that wants to build just seems to recede.

It feels a lot like being rescued.

/ /

_You've had this dream before._

_But your endings were always marked out, highlighted from a mile away, but this time you are left with blinders on._

_You've had this dream before but... this time... you don't know what comes next._

_What comes after your confession? What happens now that Paula knows? Where will they cast you and how far will you fall?_

_You've had this dream before._

_Glen tries to protect you, even as he is confused by you. Your father is a mirage, shimmering in and out of focus. But your mother, oh she is a storm and she looks right through you and somehow you turn into her - bitter and twisted and rigid and full of lies._

_And God always laughs at you, that cold mirth is always the sound to wake you up again._

_You've had this dream before but... this time... you scream instead of whimper.  
You push against the doors. You slam your palms against the windows. You look down from this prison and there she stands._

_There she is and, this time, you are not alone. And you've had this dream before.  
But this time...this time... there is something new and you grab onto it with whatever strength you have left in you._

_There she is and you are not alone._

_You don't know what comes next but you find that you do not care anymore._

/ /

Spencer looks to her right and sees the empty space beside her on this bed.

And she flexes her hand, finding the joints stiff, as if she had been grasping onto something for hours and hours. Instead of feeling relief, though, Spencer feels this ache well up underneath the lines upon her hand.

It feels like being lost.

She slowly sits up and then pivots her legs around, feet hitting the floor with a soft thud. She looks around this room, the untouched picture frames and the appearance of a child's happiness tucked into spider-web nooks.  
All around Spencer are the remnants of Ashley's childhood - a man grinning in sunglasses, a drawing or two with a best friend's name written in crayon.  
All around Spencer is a life much like the one she has had to leave behind.

In her chest starts the pain and in her heart starts the fitful beating, beyond her eyes rests the tears yet to tumble down and beyond this morning are all the days yet to come. And it could level her, it could shake loose her legs and make her crash, make her burn forever.

But the door opens and Ashley peers in. Their eyes meet and Spencer feels that ache in her hand increase, as if she should reach out and fill up the empty spaces within, as if Ashley is the only thing that can accomplish this feat. It goes beyond an urge. It feels like a need, it feels like the deepest of wants and Spencer isn't sure how to ignore this impulse.

So she doesn't.

Spencer extends her hand and Ashley steps into the room further, not a stutter to her short walk, and the brunette takes hold of Spencer as though they have been doing this for years, for centuries.

And it feels good.  
And it settles that discomfort.

It feels like being found.

/ /

They could be talking about what they are doing here and the people who drove them away, the actions taken to cause reactions, and all the voices in their heads.

But is there a point to that kind of discussion? What more is there to be said?  
They both know what lingers at home - the ones who let them down, the ones who they let down, too. They both know that the future is as blank and fathomless as it ever was.  
Talking about it won't make it clearer, won't alter a father's misgivings or a mother's love - talking about it won't cut this situation at any other angle.

They could be talking about all of this but they do not.

Instead, Ashley tinkers around the kitchen. She washes out a pot and boils water and throws in pasta that is probably too old. But when she mentions that, Spencer tells her that pasta rarely goes bad and 'what is life without a bit of risk, right?'  
They open all the windows and the curtains flit around with sea-breeze. The fabric brushes against Spencer's face when she gets close and looks out at the glittering shore.  
It's a good feeling and Spencer inhales that sense of peace, takes it into her lungs and keeps the notion there.  
And they eat out of that pot, two forks in movement and weaving in and out mouths. Ever so slowly, across the cool tile countertop, Ashley's left hand slides over and graces the backside of Spencer's hand. The fingertips travel over hidden tendons and bones and that touch pauses along the ridges of Spencer's wrist.  
Spencer feels the heat of that connection again.  
Spencer feels the heat of that connection along her face, blushing and tilting her head downward and letting the fork clatter against the metal.

They could be talking but they reveal so much more when they are silent.

Ashley leans forward and kisses Spencer's warm cheek.

"Want to go outside?"

And Spencer mutely nods her head in acquiescence.

/ /

_Your feet were small and they got buried in the sand._

_But you were young and nothing could slow you down. Out there, water lapping at your legs and the blinding daylight, you were nothing but speed._

_Out there, you had a family.  
Out there, you could believe the best was just around the bend._

/ /

Alternating between calm and frantic, they walk and then they run. They smile and it hurts their faces - cracks the lips a bit, strains the muscles some. They grow solemn and retreat and then return to each other.

They grow darker and lighter. Ashley's body goes to bronze and Spencer's hair turns into a halo. They get covered in salt and in grains of sand. They leave footprints and follow them back to the house.  
Ashley pulls off her shirt and Spencer doesn't pretend to not stare at the length of Ashley's back as it stretches and as it rolls with intakes of air.

It could be strange. It could be awkward.  
But they know so much more than they are telling. They've seen something that others work and wait eons for. They are witnessing salvation and such things must be laid bare.  
Ashley goes up the stairs and Spencer trails behind, watching the movement of hips - back and forth, not to be alluring, just natural - and Spencer's arms go up, tugging at the damp top against her body, letting the garment fall onto the floor.

/ /

_Out there is the war. Out there is the battle for your soul._

_But right here... right here, you are saved. And God cannot be as cruel as they would have you believe because God has given you this day._

_God has given you this moment. God has given you this brilliant second._

_And you won't walk away this time._

_You won't close your eyes today._

/ /

"Is it too hot?"  
"Not at all."

There is a tremble to Ashley's question and a tenderness to Spencer's response. But that blonde head leans back and the water runs over Spencer's face and Ashley cannot comprehend feeling any fear right now.

"You're beautiful. Do you know that?"

Spencer's eyes blink open and she shakes her head in the negative, like the topic has never come up before. And it hasn't, Spencer can attest to this fact. No one says 'beautiful' when they are temporary. None of those girls had the time or the inclination. Even if they did, Spencer would have cut them down.

But she can't slice through this comment now.

It is Spencer who brings their lips together. It is Spencer who grants them this re-imagining. It is Spencer who tucks herself into Ashley's arms and dissolves within Ashley's kisses.

And they are not naive enough to think that everything just washes away.

And, yet, they are brave enough to think that this is their time to come clean.

/ /

**TBC**


	50. memory fifty

It should unsettle him just a bit but it does not.

Maybe after years of being watching-not loved-but an eye kept on him and waiting for him to step out of line... Aiden is used to the looks.  
There's that boy who can't stand the dark. There's that boy living in a friend's shadow.  
There's that Dennison boy, isn't he cute?  
There's that Dennison boy, isn't he the one who throws a party every weekend?

Maybe after years, Aiden wants to be seen and this opportunity lands with Marissa.

Aiden can feel her eyes on him.  
Even though his eyes are still closed, still shuttered away from the six a.m. dawn and this humble room with its old leather couch, still trying to pretend that sleep is peaceful and this is just another ordinary day.  
But, of course, it is not an ordinary day.

Aiden is running away.

It's not like he got far-there is no river to ride upon, all Huck Finn-it is just highways and street signs, it's just the money in his pocket and the keys to that expensive car.  
It's not like he disappeared. He is just miles away, a couple of towns over, in Marissa's living room and faking slumber.

And yet, he did sleep.  
For a little while.  
For a little while, Aiden slept and Marissa left the kitchen light on. She left that light on and Aiden felt tears wind their way down his face.

Aiden felt the last of his will-power fall down, too.

/ /

_"Can I have an apple?"  
"I think so."  
"And peanut butter?"  
"Are you sure it won't ruin your appetite for dinner?"  
"It won't, I swear!"_

_Marissa doles out indulgent smiles like clowns give away balloons. It is grand and pretty and makes a kid feel special. Marissa is the circus and Aiden likes knowing she is always there._

_His father is always on the phone. His mother is always growling, she is the tiger in the cage._

_And there is a tightrope that Aiden is walking, whether he wants to or not._

_"Can I have a cookie, too?"  
"Aiden..."_

_But he smiles, a nice and wide gap-toothed grin, and Marissa figures that one cookie won't end the world.  
Aiden is a good kid. He doesn't make a mess. He doesn't complain too much.  
He'll get this line across his forehead when he concentrates and she finds it sweet, finds it oddly serious, finds it endearing and sad all at the same time._

_"Don't tell a soul."  
"I won't."_

_Oh, the secrets one can keep-from chocolate to beatings-the things we lie about when we don't know how the truth will be received._

/ /

Marissa stirs her coffee and watches the sun rise up in the sky. Then she looks over at the child, though he is long-limbed now and carries a weariness in his older eyes-Aiden is still a boy in her eyes.

Still that Dennison boy, eager and nervous and fragile. Still that little whisper 'round the corner of the world, that's who Marissa sees on her couch this early morning.  
And she should wake him up, should pepper him with more questions, should send him home. But then she remembers that home-fancy walls and fine things-and it isn't really a home at all.

Marissa hasn't forgotten.

Marissa remembers it all.

/ /

_There, along slender shoulders, there is a terrible knowledge and the shame. But she runs warm water over his body and he plays with toys like there isn't a care in the world._

_He complies with the wishes of the ones who own him.  
She complies, too. For money. For a job. For all the times you are told to not stick your nose in someone else's business, in someone else's horrible affairs._

_But as he stands up and she pulls from the bubbles, he hisses and she is too close to the reason and their eyes meet.  
And Aiden knows that she knows. And they are aware of something darker, something wrong, something that an adult should stop and something that a child should never know._

_Aiden carries the guilt of being a punching bag, of unknowingly being an excuse for anger.  
Marissa carries the guilt for never saying a word, for walking away._

/ /

When he hears Marissa leave the room, Aiden sits up and stares at the floor. He watches his bare feet flex and stretch. He looks at the color of the worn carpet, how it is matted down in areas. Then his gaze trails to the bag-stuffed with inconsequential things-and his phone resting on top.

A light flashes once. Then twice.

And Aiden wondered if Ashley would stay in touch. He wondered if their friendship was something built because it had to be, not because they wanted it to be there. He wondered how far anyone could care when they are so shattered-could he love her? Could she love him? Could they actually be there for one another when they couldn't be there for themselves?

Aiden wondered if Ashley was real at all.

Or did he make her up, desperate for family and oh so needy? Did he create her and draw her up, crayons for her hair and paint for her eyes? Did he give her a name, something easy to recall, and beg her to stay?

The light flashes again. Then again.

Aiden reaches out and flips the phone open. He opens the newest text message.

**'Are you okay?'**

Marissa comes back out and Aiden looks away from the phone, into the woman's knowing eyes. And he can see the questions to come. And he knows that the answers he has are not good enough, not yet anyway.

"Are you... okay?" Marissa asks quietly.

Aiden knows that the answer is not enough, but it is all he has.

For now, it is all he can say.

"I don't know. Not yet."

/ /

**'You will be. I promise.'**

And Aiden closes the phone.

/ /

**TBC**


	51. memory fifty one

"Do your parents know about you? About, you know... **this**?"

Ashley knows that this question can come with a lot of answers. She was there, though. She was there to see the bomb go off in Spencer's house and, even though she took off before the pieces hit the ground, Ashley knows what is being truly asked.

Ashley's parents don't know about her-not really-but they know that she does not care for guys. In a normal world, that could have been the thing to break them apart from one another. But in this world, they were already broken up and busted.

Being gay means little to her parents. They've got lies to tell. They've got wounds to hide.

Spencer is against her legs, though, and the girl needs to hear something. And Ashley has just been winging it so far, going on emotions she isn't used to feeling, and the words that come out of her mouth might not be right.  
Might not be good enough to make a difference, to even make sense.

"Yea, they do."  
"And they... they are okay with it?"

Spencer is against her legs, pressing into Ashley's knees and a slight touch of a palm to the top of Ashley's bare left foot. Every time the wind comes off the ocean, the fine blonde strands of hair flutter over Ashley's exposed legs and she shudders.  
It feels good. It feels deceptively perfect. It is scary and lovely and Ashley keeps on doing what she can-she reaches down and runs her fingers through that hair and Spencer does not move into the touch but she doesn't move away.

"I guess so. It's just the least of our collective issues is all, though... They don't care because they don't know how to, I think..."

The sky is turning dark, the sun is slipping away, and night is almost here. The phone in Ashley's pocket vibrates the once and then goes silent.  
A reply from somewhere safe, a message from a friend... and Ashley takes more comfort from that knowledge.  
Because they are all on the run but without a destination in mind. They are all out to sea but still woefully rudderless.  
And Ashley and Spencer have landed here, in an old house with old dreams.  
And Aiden has landed over there, with an old presence in an even older time.

But she wants him to be okay.  
Because they are friends, the kind of friend that you may not see every day or even every month, but they were there. They were the there in the war of your life and faces like those don't just fade from view.  
Aiden was there when the shells hit the floor. Ashley was there when his fantasy crumbled.  
Friends don't just disappear... Sometimes, they just change.

The sun is gone. The sky is black. And now they are talking, sheltered in the fact that their faces are removed from sight. Spencer leans into Ashley's hand like it cannot be helped, like she can't keep that head up anymore.  
It's time to sink. It's time to swim, too.

"They hate me. I know that they do. They hate this part of me... and it has grown into a hate of **all** of me. My mothe-Paula... I see it in her eyes, the shame and the disappointment. I see how she just wishes I would... not be this thing, this thing she loathes, like I can cut it out of my body. She** hates **me, Ashley. She actually hates me."

And Ashley wants to burn the world, wants to turn back clocks, wants to hit and scream and wail. She wants to save a child-beaten by hands, beaten by words-Ashley wants to be the hero. But just like drawings of dinosaurs couldn't stop Aiden's mother from bruising him repeatedly, all the rage in the universe won't stop Spencer's mother from being so horrible.

Sometimes, nothing changes at all.

"And my father is so **fucking** quiet, you know? Like he can't talk, like he can't think... like he can't see me at all..."

Ashley hears the tears in those words, hears the weeping that the night covers up.  
And her hand pauses, stops sliding through soft locks, the fingers poised near the base of Spencer's sobbing head.

"I'm so tired... I am so tired of having nowhere to be..."

Spencer is against Ashley's legs and that beautiful body trembles upon this weathered porch, releasing every agony and every arrow shot to the heart, bleeding out until nothing remains.

And Ashley isn't sure when she moved, when she left that chair and pulled Spencer into her arms, isn't sure when the girl stopped crying and when they started kissing.  
Ashley isn't sure if she is seeing stars reflected in blue eyes or if it is sorrow or if it is love.

But the words come, unbidden and unabashed, falling from Ashley's lips like she means them. Like they are meant to be. Like they might save someone.

"Be with me."

/ /

Spencer knows that this cannot last.

It's like a reprieve for a dying man-the last meal, the last rites, a kiss from who you'll leave behind-this won't be forever.  
Even if it feels amazing. Even if it feels honest and true. Even if it is actually love.

But this is just a moment.

And soon enough, they will lock this house up and they will roll back to the well-paid suburbs, back to a school that does not matter, back to families that cripple children, back to mistakes made without clothes on... Back to reality once again.

Spencer knows that this cannot last.

It won't be there in a year. It won't be there in a month or two. It may not even be there tomorrow.  
Even if it feels like forever. Even if it feels stable and secure. Even if it is actually love.

Because they don't know how to be with anyone else.  
Ashley is no romantic-she's a girl from a secluded room, she's a girl with dangerous eyes, she's a gorgeous girl with her own problems.  
And Spencer is no innocent-she's a girl who takes fairy tales and turns them upside-down, she's a figment of someone's cruel imagination, she is God's favorite joke.

Spencer knows this cannot last.

And they are driving, they are holding hands, they are saying good-bye to the beach and hello to all they didn't speak of, all they didn't address, all they cannot fix.  
And the roads are familiar and Spencer wants to turn around. Spencer wants to close her eyes and wake up somewhere new. Spencer wants to take Ashley with her.

But this cannot last.

Nothing good ever lasts-not affection and not safety and not love. This isn't love. This isn't a net to fall into. This isn't reality... is it?

_"Be with me."_

And when Ashley told her that, Spencer thought-for a second-that maybe she could do just that. She could be with Ashley. She could be with that girl, the one Spencer followed up the stairs and the one Spencer let too far in and the one Spencer couldn't let just walk away.

And when Ashley told her that, Spencer almost made it happen.

But they are here, a house full of regret and anger sitting opposite, and Spencer can't remember how Ashley's lips taste. She can't recall the sensation of Ashley's hand on her back.  
All of it is washed away by the present.  
All of it is forgotten in the face of what Spencer can never out-run.

_"Be with me."_

Spencer leans over and places a quick kiss to Ashley's cheek. And those brown eyes are not stupid, they see the brush off, they see the escape route in Spencer's gaze.

"I'm not going anywhere. I'll be right here." Ashley whispers.

And Spencer wants to believe. She wants to believe in something, in someone. At that beach and on the run, she could believe. In Ashley's arms, she could believe.  
But here and now... Oh, here and now...

"I can't promise I'll come back out." Spencer replies and she walks away quick and she curses her legs for moving so steadily. She hates the way her heart races. Spencer cannot stay the way her hands ache and the way she keeps crying.

Her fingers on the door knob. Her body frozen.

And Spencer looks back, just the once.

And Ashley is there.

/ /

_"Be with me." _

_Sounds like a dream, hazy and distant. But could it be? Could it be real?_

_You'll take a chance. Just this once. You'll take a chance and take that leap. You've made it so far... haven't you?_

_"Okay."_

/ /

**TBC**


	52. memory fifty two

It's funny how silent a house can be during the middle of the day. It is not at all like at nighttime, when everyone is asleep. At night, a house sleeps, too. It slumbers and the wood settles like old bones, sinking another half-inch into the ground below.

At night, if a person were to listen closely, they could hear the breathing of men and women, of adults and children, of plaster and floor-boards.

During the middle of the day, though, there is a quiet that is almost unbearable in a house.

As if whole families just disappeared, plates left in the sink and clocks barely ticking, as if the world simply forgot about this place and tossed it aside. Like trash and a treasure all rolled into one entity, what you once called home is now deafening in its emptiness.

Spencer's ears hurt with the all noise not being made.

Even her steps are soft and delicate, like she might get caught sneaking into her own room, like she is the thief and this family of hers are the victims.  
She peers into the kitchen, looks at her father's favorite mug - sitting by the edge of the kitchen table. And there, on the counter, the dish towel folded into a neat square - Paula's touch all over that slip of material.  
Even further along, in the hall way and discarded like an after-thought, are Glen's shoes - caked in mud and only one of them upright, the other casually fallen over, laces loose.

As if they have just disappeared.

Spencer kind of wishes that they would do just that, just disappear and never return.  
Then again, she kind of wishes this family would return and be as they used to be.

Spencer kind of wishes she could be the one to disappear.  
She could go upstairs and curl up in the bed and pull the blankets over her head.  
She could stay there, buried in regrets and in sorrow, hidden from hateful eyes.  
And then she would just fade away.  
Just shrivel up and... disappear.

A couple months ago, Spencer would have considered this plan of action.

A week ago, Spencer would have not just considered this plan of action - she would have acted on it. She actually tried to - just not so peacefully. She tried to pull the wool over her eyes with alcohol and drugs. She tried to become a missing person.

Out there, though, across from this silent house and all its memories, is Ashley Davies.

Out there, though, is the one thing that Spencer doesn't know how to avoid anymore.

She wanted love, alright, who doesn't? She wanted love from her parents. She wanted love from Glen. She wanted love from God. She wanted love from herself.

But out there, out there is someone who claims to be a harbor and Spencer has forgotten what it means to finally let that anchor drop down.  
But out there, out there is Ashley - brown gaze and satin hair and beautiful words - out there is Ashley and a car and a promise and hands that hold and comfort and maybe so much more... Maybe there is so much more out there and Spencer isn't sure how to grab onto it, isn't sure she will ever be strong enough to allow herself to love a girl like Ashley Davies.

_Love? Did you think that? Do you mean that? How can you? How can you love anyone at all?_

Spencer slowly sits down on the bottom step of the stairwell and stares at nothing in particular - not the walls, not the windows - she just stares until the front door opens again.

"...Spencer?"

/ /

Her eyes make a circuit, grazing the dash and the dials, then onward to the lawn, and ending at the door.  
The door that does not open. The door that Ashley cannot go through.  
Still, she watches and then looks away and then goes right back to watching its wooden surface like it might change suddenly.

And in her hands is her phone, going back and forth from one palm to another.

The longer that Spencer is gone, the more anxious Ashley feels. The more anxious Ashley feels, the more her head tells her to run - _run now before you are in too deep_ - and the more her heart just will not leave.

It's funny how hard the heart can beat if you are truly listening to it. She's been used to the racing, the speed at which a muscle can push blood around when you dance or when you have sex with someone - Ashley is used to that sound. Or the way a heart can grow shallow, the way it can almost stop, the way it can break - Ashley knows all about that, too.

But, right here and right now, there are drums in her chest and they just won't stop pounding. Relentless and tribal and like thunder, Ashley's heart threatens to bust ribs and tear flesh.

And she is scared that this is what it feels like to die, just not in a way that means death.  
This is what it feels like to feel. This is what it feels like to need. This is what it feels like to see someone and the ground rumbles underneath your feet and, yet, you cannot look away.

Ashley's heart says to stay and to disobey could actually kill her.

And in her hands is her phone, going back and forth.  
And she watches the door. And that door does not open.

Ashley fingers glide over the handle and she is about to make a move, even as her body protests and even as her emotions push her, but a silver SUV pulls into the drive-way.

A man steps out of the automobile, grocery bags in hand and keys fumbling, and this must be Spencer's father. The man out of the corner of Ashley's rushing gaze, the ruffled hair and confused face that Ashley tried to erase from her mind.  
But there he is, going into that house, walking straight into a waiting Spencer Carlin.

And, so, Ashley finally looks away.

But the anxiousness only increases. It builds to a fever pitch and Ashley's fingers are moving before she even realizes it, dialing up that number without having to think about it.

On the fourth ring, it is picked up.

"Ash?"  
"I promised you that everything would be okay, didn't I?"  
"...Yea."  
"Can you... can you do the same? For me? Can you tell me it will **all** be okay?"

A soft and familiar sigh echoes into Ashley's ear. But then Aiden's voice follows.

"It'll all be okay, Ash. I promise you, it will be."

/ /

Aiden stays on the line but says nothing more.  
Ashley begs her heart to settle down but it does not listen.  
Spencer blinks her eyes and brings that stare right to her father's face.

/ /

**TBC**


	53. memory fifty three

Unlike you, your father has eyes of brown.

No shocking bolt of blue to get lost in, not in his gaze, and you could look for the rest of your life and still not find what you are searching for.  
No, not in his gaze.

Whatever used to rest there - understanding, affection, a whisper in the night - it just does not jump out at you anymore. The man that used to be your father is not here anymore.  
Like a timid solider on the battlelines, faced with bullets and blood, that man ran as fast as he could - back to a far-flung homestead, back to another time.

You pushed the envelope to get attention.  
He just receded into the background.

Same desires, different choices. Same family, different recollections.  
Same room, different longings. Same sorrows, different types of tears.

Unlike you, your father simply cannot move.

And you, even with your resolve as steady as a leaf in the breeze, are the one who must fight to make things better.

No, not for this man before you.

But for yourself.

/ /

_She runs a bit and then tumbles down and then claws at the grass to get back up._

_And Paula calls from the wooden table, dishing out coleslaw and pouring up cups of sweet tea. Glen mashes buttons on his Game-Boy and ignores the plate put before him, which earns him a stern look from Paula._

_She is back up now and hands waving about and she grins._

_Paula says his name and he nods, speaking without saying a word. Yes, he'll be there soon. Yes, they will all say grace and eat this nice lunch on this beautiful day._

_But first, he'll just sit here and wait for Spencer to reach him - on her new legs, with her newly found freedom._

_Arthur waits._

/ /

"...Spencer?"

She blinks and then she shifts her gaze.

There, with bags of food in both hands, is her father.  
Arthur Carlin. Brown eyes. Black hair with a hint of silver at the edges.

So unlike Spencer Carlin.

She's not sure what they actually have in common, besides the fact that he played a part in her conception. That might be it, though. That might be the beginning and end of their connection to one another - a biological calling card, a reason for certain facial expressions and nothing more.

Spencer pushes herself up and off of the stairs, not bothering to answer him as she walks closer and takes one of the grocery bags. She carries it into the kitchen and sits it down, staying there at the counter even as he slowly follows her in and sits down his own bag.

And like every other year and every other day and every other second of this horrible world with each other, they are faced with silence.

/ /

_She runs. She stumbles. She falls but there isn't a patch of ground to catch her and to cling to._

_This kind of running isn't done with feet, though. This kind of running can take someone so far away that you just cannot see them anymore._

_Of course, you have to be looking. You have to never stop looking._

_Paula makes some kind of comment at the table and Arthur has learned to tune out the sound of those words, how they are spoken with the intent to wound.  
Paula is so good at hurting people. Paula is so good at running, too._

_She runs. Dear God, she runs so fast and not even you can catch her. No one can catch up to her now, can they?_

_Glen hangs about at the sidelines, hovering between defending and ignorance, tired of being the forgotten child and tired of watching a sibling get raked over the coals and tired of there always being a fight. Arthur wants to grab a hold of Glen's shoulder and give the boy something to cling to. Arthur wants to grab a hold of this family and give them something... give them something that means more than the here and now._

_And she runs. And she stumbles. And it gets harder to see if she can get up again._

_It is hard to watch Spencer fall._

_And Arthur grips the knife in his hand, poised over the plate, muscles tense with all he should do and all he won't do, watching from the corner of his eye as Spencer storms out of the dining room._

/ /

She could say so much.  
She could say a million things and there would still be more to be said.

Isn't that just how it goes? One second in time, one chance to lay it all out on the line, and the words just won't come. Those painful stutters and those bone-deep confessions hold fast to the tongue. Everything terrible is condensed into one moment and you've got to find a way to say it, say it quickly and say it with force and say it like you mean it.

Spencer needs to say **something**.

Spencer has needed to say something for so damn long.

One of her father's hands rests on the countertop, a bit weathered and worn, but she remembers all the times that hand caressed her hair before sleep. She recalls all the times that hand guided her on her first bike, pulled her along at carnivals, kept her close when childish tears fell over silly things.

With a single ragged breath, Spencer brings a hand of her own up and then watches, almost detached and almost terrified, as father and daughter come into contact.  
Fingers overlapping. Shaking palm resting lightly on top of knuckles and veins.  
And Spencer can feel his eyes on the sloping side of her face, eyes so unlike her own.

Or, really, maybe in this very moment, they are just alike after all.

Because Spencer can sense the sadness in that stare, the realization that time just won't turn back and all that has been done cannot be undone now - all her father's thoughts rushing around in her own head.

Her eyes sting. Her eyes fucking burn. But it is one breath after another when she finally speaks, saying something and, yet, not even getting close to all she wants to shout.

"You let me down. You weren't there to catch me and I... I **needed** you to be there... I really fucking **needed you**."

It is like a strange convulsion overtakes her body then, sounding like an intake of air and the start of weeping, and she clamps down on her father's hand.

Just for a second. Because that's how it goes, doesn't it?  
One second in time, one chance.  
That's all you get sometimes.

When he doesn't turn his hand over, still frozen at the counter and still a sad and pathetic gaze in those brown eyes, Spencer pulls her hand away and talks past those angry tears.

"You can tell Paula that I am here because I have nowhere else to go, not until school is over and I can leave. But stay out of my way, okay? I want the both of youto just... just stay the **hell** out of my way."

She finally looks over at him and witnesses that head lowering, the agreement without a single thing being said, and Spencer knows that this is the end.

She could say so much.  
She could say a million things and there would still be more to be said.

But someone has to be listening, don't they?

Spencer turns around and walks out of the kitchen. She goes up the stairs and to her bedroom, shutting the door behind her. And she looks around at the posters, at the photographs. She looks at all of what used to be and what will never be again.

Spencer rips it all down.

/ /

"Do you need me, you know, for anything?"

You lean against the window, the loud 'discussion' downstairs still going on and the knock on the door ignored - you are sure it was your brother, confused and wanting answers, answers you don't have the energy to give - and you can't see her car sitting outside of this house.  
You can't see much of anything now that the day has come to a close.

But there she is. Like she said she would be.

Her voice is anxious. Her voice is breathless. Her voice is forever linked with salt-water and musty sheets and the most tender of kisses. Her voice is forever connected with a night that changed everything.

You've needed someone and she found you.

The phone is warm against your ear. She waits for you to speak. She waits for you and that scares you. She waits for you and your heart fucking pounds.

You need her and she is right there.

"Stay on the phone with me... if that's alright?" You ask, like she just might say no.

But there she is.

Like she said she would be.

"That's more than alright."

/ /

**TBC**


	54. memory fifty four

**The end is nigh.**

/ /

If there are only a few moments in her life that will be remembered, this will be one of them: his head on her shoulder, cheek pressed down hard against the material of her shirt.  
No longer a boy she can pick up.  
No longer a child she can care for.

You misplace feelings, on occasion, but they still linger around the edges of your heart.

Aiden lurked around the edges of Marissa's mind, stood patiently around the corners of where she keeps all her compassion and all her regrets.

She'll always remember this, though.

She'll always remember a head resting on her shoulder, still so much like a boy she once knew, still so many years to come and still so much life to occur for a child left alone for too long.

She'll always remember being here, in this average living room in her average home, as the clock ticks away another morning and her arms hold onto this little soldier.

Marissa will never forget this moment.

/ /

_Glen remembers the day his parents brought Spencer home._

_So little and so whiny and so delicate - he couldn't throw a ball to her and he couldn't yell around her. She took all the fun away. She took all the attention away._

_Sure, he was only two, but this tiny... thing... just stole his mother and father from right under his nose._

_Glen remembers the day that Spencer first spoke, words finally struggling past the girl's usual garbled mess. He was already saying things - important things about important stuff - and, yet, Spencer's voice seemed to be the one everyone waited for._

_He was jealous. He was annoyed. He wished for a brother when the lights would go out, in his bed with the sheets covered in race cars._

_He wished for Spencer to just go away._

_Glen remembers the day that Spencer got that bike, all frilly and pink and ridiculous looking, small feet pedaling faster as she tried to keep up with Glen's older legs._

_He wanted to leave her behind. He had friends to catch up with, boys his own age and who liked playing baseball. He didn't want to be in charge of playing with Spencer. He didn't want to care for her at all._

_Spencer yelled out as tires wobbled, uneven pavement and an unsteady body coming together to create an accident. And his friends, still gliding down the road, laughed._

_Glen wanted to laugh, too. That's what you do. That's how you act with other boys, that's what you do when you want to fit in and be tough and not care._

_And maybe it was the punishment that would surely happen if he just kept on going, maybe it was just the urge for Spencer's crying to stop because it was loud and embarrassing..._

_...Maybe, though, Glen finally saw Spencer as his sister and didn't want to wish her away anymore._

_Glen remembers riding back to her, kneeling down and using the hem of his t-shirt to dab at the cut on her knee. Then he helped her stand up and they slowly walked the bikes back home._

_His mother was upset.  
His father was hovering.  
But Spencer, all through the soap and the warm water and the burning of hydrogen-peroxide, held onto Glen's hand and wouldn't let go._

_She didn't reach out for anyone else._

_She just held onto Glen._

/ /

Aiden looks at this room.

There are the walls he painted and there is the floor he stripped down to wood. There's that guest bed, sheets still rumpled with a line of temporary lovers. The blinds are still pulled down over the windows, keeping things dark and removed and hidden.

He cannot remember every face. He won't ever recall all the names. His fingertips will forget the sensation of new skin soon enough, as if none of this had ever happened.

But, of course, it all happened.

He turns back around and doesn't bother to lock the room up this time.

Aiden goes into his bedroom and digs up that old gym bag. He fills it up with clothing, packing it tight and barely able to zip the thing closed again. He grabs a jacket or two, looping them through his arm, and then his feet pound down the stairs.

Once those things are in the back seat of his car, the car he will surely lose because there is no turning back now, Aiden goes back into this house.

This house, never a home, stands so quietly as his eyes skim over the surfaces - the kitchen where he ate cookies and talked to Marissa, the living room where he watched cartoons on long Saturdays, the doors to the patio where he first met Ashley, and all the doors to other rooms that he never gave a damn about - and then Aiden blinks rapidly.

Aiden blinks away tears, sadness not over what is going on right now, but on all the things that could have been - on all the things that should have been.

But crying just gets in the way.

And he'll not deny the sorrow, never again, he won't try to drown this pain anymore.

But, today, crying solves nothing.

And Aiden needs to work fast if he wants to finally break free.

/ /

Glen stands at her door, hands in his jean pockets, and Spencer doesn't budge at his uncomfortable stare. Then again, he didn't expect her to say anything. He doesn't expect her to do anything to make this easier for any of them.

What is there to say? What is there to do anyway?

Glen isn't stupid. He knows that nothing will ever be the same.

_"Glen... Glen, I'm gay."_

There they are, there are those words that like to change lives and that love to tear families apart and there are those words that take a sister and turn her into a stranger.

This is a cut he cannot heal.

This is where Glen's hand falters and falls to his side. This is where Glen rides away on his bike and ignores every single sob that tumbles out of his sister's lips. This is where he wishes away a blonde haired girl and hopes that she turns into a brother by morning.

Spencer's sudden sigh halts his thoughts and she is up from the bed, walking towards him. But no, not really, she is just pushing the door and shutting him out.

As she has been for all this time.

Spencer has kept him at arm's length. She kept this secret from him, too. She stopped holding on to him in times of need. Glen is not the only one to carry some blame.

He can't clean the wound if Spencer doesn't shout out for help.

Glen puts his palm against the door and Spencer's blue eyes look sharply at him, daring him to say something, daring him to start up a conversation that might not go well, daring him to either put the last nail in the coffin or to do something really brave after all.

"Do you remember when you wrecked on your first bike?" Glen asks, watching as Spencer's face attempts to stay hard and impervious, but ultimately fails.

"Maybe." She mutters softly and Glen doesn't need to press the matter because he knows that she remembers. It was the day they went from enemies to friends. It was the day they went from strangers to siblings.

So, Glen holds out his hand as the voices downstairs grow a little more heated and strained and he can see hesitation in Spencer's eyes, he can see fear and anger and so many sleepless nights and so many wasted days in Spencer's weary gaze.

But Glen opens his hand a bit wider, expectantly.

"This is gonna hurt, Spence... but I'm here. I've **always** been here. All you have to do is take my hand."

/ /

_Strong and sure, not too much bigger than her own hand, and so she grips it with all the strength in her body. She grips and shakes and does not let go._

_She doesn't let go until the door to her bedroom is in front of her and Glen is squirming to get away, rolling his eyes and tugging at her hair to be rude._

_She pouts at him and their mother tells them to behave._

_But Glen shoots a grin Spencer's way - and she grins back at her brother._

_She remembers that being one of the best days of her life._

/ /

And if there are only a few moments in her life that will be remembered, this will be one of them: reaching out, terrified and distrusting, but reaching out nonetheless and grabbing a hold of Glen's waiting hand.

Slightly bigger than her own. Strong. Sure. As it always has been.

So, Spencer decides to not let go this time.

/ /

**TBC**


	55. memory fifty five

"Will you help me?"

/ /

_The first time you saw Aiden, like really saw Aiden, wasn't up in that big and rambling house. It wasn't when a little boy without shorts was being berated by a shitty mother; it wasn't the early exposure to a tear-stained face and to thin fingers that gripped small arms too tightly._

_The first time you saw Aiden was the moment he hooked his pinkie with your own._

_The first time you saw Aiden was underneath the water of the pool, his eyes finally open._

_The first time you saw Aiden was in the glow of the television screen, Saturday mornings and horror-movie nights._

_The first time you saw Aiden was as he blushed around Marissa's hot cousin, the roots of his black hair almost turning red._

_The first time you saw Aiden was when you were drunk and on his kitchen floor, his arm around your shoulders as you cried._

_The first time you saw Aiden was really every time you looked at him._

/ /

Ashley stands there, caught between thoughts of how completely insane this is and, yet, how she has no other solution to offer up either.

_How do you tell someone to stay put and remain miserable?_

_How do you ask someone to stick around when leaving could make them happy?_

Ashley still hasn't figured out how to turn back time. Ashley still hasn't figured out how to fix parents or mend children. Ashley still hasn't figured out so many things.

"Ash... c'mon, answer me... will you help me do this?"

She sighs and Aiden watches her closely, his eyes running over her face, searching for something that Ashley is not sure can be found.

"Won't you get in **more **trouble? Won't they look for you and, I don't know, have you arrested?"  
"Not where I'm going."  
"...Which is **where**, Aiden? I mean... you've not even thought this through or anything, have you?"  
"I can't stay here, Ash. Not anymore."

_How do you hold onto to someone if they have to break away to actually live?_

_How do you let go of a person when, maybe, you were never meant to have them at all?_

"Then come to my place. Stay with me."

But Aiden rolls his eyes and that just pisses Ashley off, so she mutters a 'fuck you' and walks past him and out the patio doors. She does not get further than the gravel path-way. She does not get further than where the nicely trimmed grass meets the edge of concrete.

She just stands there, caught between thoughts of a five-year old pact and an ancient promise... and, yet, how everything always ends.  
Just like childhood. Just like love. Just like dreams. Just like friendships.

And then Aiden is there, staring out at the yard just like she is doing. It is just the two of them, like always, quietly side by side as the wealthy suburb that surrounds them continues to make all the appropriate sounds: car doors slamming and garden parties and stereos through windows.

Beyond all of that is the hitch in Ashley's breathing.

"If I don't do this now, Ash, what if I never get away from here?"

Beyond all of that is the strangling hold Ashley has over this sorrow in her throat.

"And if I never get away from here... I might as well be dead."

She can feel his gaze on her now, as if the years have suddenly receded and they are eleven years old. Or twelve. Or five. Or seven. Or every other age, every other year, where Aiden needed her support to see him through. As if it were a million other days, a million other moments, a million other chances where Aiden could have cut these ties but kept the rope intact between the two of them.

Ashley knows she is crying now. Ashley knows that she is crying and still she looks over at Aiden, as if it were the first time she has ever seen him.

Maybe it is just that, too.

/ /

_The first time you saw Aiden was the first time you saw family._

_The first time you saw Aiden was the first time you saw affection._

_The first time you saw Aiden, like really saw Aiden, was the first time you saw yourself._

/ /

The back seat of Aiden's car is littered with easily bought, but easily forgotten, items that took up wasted space in that big and rambling house.

These things, held up as markers of the vast amounts of money made, will fetch a pretty price at any pawn shop. There are guys who won't ask questions when a guy of eighteen shows up with such things; there are guys who won't write up receipts or need to see some form of identification.

All of these things, these useless and pretty things, will be called in as missing long before Aiden himself is reported as gone.

Then again, this son has been disappearing by inches since the day he was born.

/ /

_The first time you saw Ashley was the first time you saw a world better than your own._

/ /

Ashley stands there.

Ashley stands there, caught between a story told and the blank pages that wait to be written upon, and her hands flex into fists and she cannot look up from the ground.

Ashley stands there.

Ashley stands there, caught between all that is going to be lost and whatever might be found as time rolls onward, and her cheeks are wet and she wants to lash out so badly.

/ /

_The first time you saw Ashley was the first time you saw someone give a damn about you._

/ /

Aiden's arms, as secure as ever, gather her up and hold her and won't let go even as she tries to push him away.

Ashley tries to push him away because he is leaving.

Ashley tries to push him away because this is going to hurt.

Ashley tries to push him away because she doesn't want to lose him - her brother, her friend, her confidant, her safe place, her home - and what will become of her now?

What will Ashley be without Aiden?

/ /

_The first time you saw Ashley was with a grin that didn't die with secrets revealed, cocky and steadfast and true._

_The first time you saw Ashley was when the girl showed up the next day and then the next and then the next._

_The first time you saw Ashley was in every brightly colored drawing she gave you and in every silly little joke she told you._

_The first time you saw Ashley was on all those days she pulled you along, all the those days she took your hand and made you run._

_The first time you saw Ashley was in a movie theater, stolen alcohol and a bad film, as she tried to heal you the best way she could._

/ /

"You're my fucking home."

Ashley voice breaks loose - weak and wounded - as she stops fighting.

And this boy she once met is picking her up, hugging her like this is the last time ever, and she finally returns the gesture.

She squeezes onto him tightly and she cries harder and Aiden puts her tender feet back on the ground once again.

"This isn't forever. I promise, Ash."

And the sun is leaving the sky. And the stars will be out soon, though no one in this city will be able to see them. And those pointless parents are still over the ocean. And there won't be another party to arrange. There won't be another mess of sex and sadness in a made-up room.

There won't be an Aiden and Ashley anymore.

/ /

_The first time you saw Ashley was really every time you looked at her._

/ /

"You swear?"

/ /

_The first time you see Ashley, like really see Ashley, is today._

/ /

"Want me to pinky swear? 'Coz I will."

/ /

And their pinkies curl around each other.

They hold for a second.

Then they pull apart.

/ /

**TBC**


	56. memory fifty six

This silent table will - one day - be all that you remember of your childhood home.

Those other images, those soft and fine recollections, will fade over time and you'll replace those distant visions with new snapshots. You'll overlap the past with future intentions. You'll push color into that black-and-white world and never look back.

You'll reach a day where none of this will mean a damn thing.

And you don't know where you'll be living, but you'll be at ease there.  
And you don't know who you'll be loving, but you'll be completely devoted to them.  
And you don't know what you'll do with your days, but you'll be smiling all the while.

You don't know how you'll get to that moment but, for the first time in forever, you actually believe you'll get there.

/ /

Spencer can feel Paula's stare on her face and, as usual, it burns as well as it freezes.

It is as hot and stinging as a slap; the sharp shock of a palm to a cheek and the heat of disapproval ringing out. It is as fixed and as cold as being caught in the cross-hairs; a singularly determined stare that carries years of loathing behind it.

At this very moment, Spencer would rather be anywhere else than here. She cannot even console herself with the horrible games that she and Paula normally to indulge in - the cruel baiting and the cutting comments and the judgment and the faux innocence and the continual destruction of that weak mother-daughter bond.

Spencer is too tired for such things now.

Spencer is too tired to pretend that that game was ever what she wanted to play.

Glen, though, insisted that she come downstairs to eat dinner. Glen kept her hand in his and wouldn't take 'no' for an answer.

Glen told her it was going to hurt and Spencer knows that he is right.

"I am surprised to see you with us tonight, Spencer, considering that you just decided to disappear for days on end and not tell any of us where you were going or **who **you were going **with**." Paula states, eyes unblinking and waiting, just waiting for the race to begin and just waiting to see who gives up first and just waiting to see who loses their breath as they fucking run for their life.

And Spencer is tempted to give in. She is tempted to match this woman point-for-point, tempted to take hold of that handle and dig that blade in deeper, tempted to forget reaching out to Glen and tempted to forget a voice over a phone-line and tempted to be this girl forever: to be the fairy tale, the lost child, the wound on the Carlin name, always Wendy at the ledge of life and never, ever anything more.

Spencer is tempted but then, underneath the table, Glen takes her left hand in his own.

And she isn't sure how she'll get through this moment but, for the first time in forever, Spencer actually believes she'll make it to the other side.

"All that matters is that she is back, for good, and it's going to stay that way... **right**, Mom?"

Glen's voice is so sure and it glides along the atmosphere and lands in Paula's lap, causing their father to raise his downtrodden head from the endless gazing at the plate before him. Spencer's fingers move of their own volition, grasping onto Glen's hand as if he is the only strip of land in a whole ocean.

And Spencer tells herself to breathe.

And Spencer tells herself to keep breathing as the water rises to eye-level.

"Glen, I **know** you love Spencer... But there are things that you do not know about her, things that Spencer** refuses **to work on or to deal with and, until she is willing to change and to seek out God's forgiveness, then this house is no longer her home. I **will not **have Spencer's sinful behavior affect all of us, to **ruin** all of us."

Oh, Paula Carlin could have made a killing behind the pulpit. Paula Carlin, with her heavenly halo of blonde hair and her sky-blue eyes, could have doled out passage after passage of righteous indignation and made the words go down like honey.

Paula Carlin can baptize and criticize with the best of them; there's a fire in this woman that just can't be put out and to get too close is to dance with getting burned by her fervor.

In some other world, the sick and the afflicted would crash at Paula's door-step.

In this world, though, it is just a gay daughter who doesn't want to be healed.

"I don't **care**, Mom. I don't care about any of this and you shouldn't care either. She's **your daughter** and you shouldn't care if she's gay or not."

And their father is frozen.  
And Paula is at a brief and startled loss.  
And Glen is wonderfully defiant.

And Spencer feels that wave surround her now, taking away the air and immobilizing her with panic and her arm starts to subtly shake with how tightly she is holding on to Glen's hand.

And Spencer swears that she is drowning.

/ /

You'll reach a day where none of this will mean a damn thing.

But it'll hurt in the meantime.

Oh, it'll hurt like hell.

/ /

"But it** does **matter, Glen. It matters to **God**."  
"Didn't God create everyone, though? Didn't God **make** Spencer this way?"  
"**No**. No, **God** did not do this, Glen. Homosexuality is condemned in the Bible, it is **wrong** and-"  
"But this is **Spencer**, Mom! This is Spencer,** my **sister, and I won't let you kick her out. I won't let you."  
"You have absolutely** no say **in this, Glen, so I suggest you stop all of this **right now**."

So Glen looks to their father and Arthur Carlin stays quiet, which is nothing new and this is where the story usually halts and things go back to their painful simplicity.

This is when Spencer usually disappears from view. This is when Spencer usually dives head-long into meaningless touches and bitter kisses.

This is when the water usually tugs Spencer so far under.

"Then you'll have to kick me out, too. I won't stay here if you send Spencer away. You'll lose both of us, Mom... You'll lose us and we won't **ever** come back."

This is where that old story ends.

/ /

It'll hurt like hell - this denial of affection and this ignorance of your existence and this stupid silent table with unfamiliar faces at either end.

It'll hurt like hell - the way threats will retreat for a brother and not for you, the way this mother looks at you like you've taken all the joy out of the world.

It'll hurt like hell - the days to come where you won't speak to them and they won't speak to you and you should be used to it but you never will be, will you?

/ /

Glen keeps a firm grip on Spencer's hand the whole time.

And Spencer feels oxygen flood her lungs once more. And Spencer watches those fears recede like the tide.

For the first time in forever, Spencer wakes up on dry land.

/ /

One day, all you'll remember of your childhood is the moment you stood upon solid ground and didn't fall, didn't falter, didn't crash and didn't burn.

All you'll remember - one day - is the moment you decided to fly.

/ /

**TBC**


	57. memory fifty seven

**Writing has become increasingly difficult these days. Don't mean to leave you hanging.**

/ /

_It's a new world, right?_

The planet spins a bit slower now. The tide rolls in faster and the moon seems to hang closer in the sky tonight. The shore stretches out further than yesterday and, if you were to run, you'd still not be able to cross it in time.

_It's a brand new world, right?_

When you blink and open your eyes, no one is who they used to be.  
No longer the tear-stained face in the mirror of your childish gaze; he is the disappearing of tail-lights as you stay rooted to the ground.

You blink and open your eyes.

And here is the beach, empty and cool to the touch.  
And here you are, a complication of emotions and skin damp from the kind of crying that does not make a single sound.

_It's a new world._

_Right?_

The stars are brighter now and you fall back onto the sand and you stare up at the heavens and hope that the universe will finally reveal its secrets to you. You hope that comets will drop down answers as they shoot across the black night - the nature of leaving, the reason for lying, the purpose of love, and how to fucking survive it all.

All of you, thrown down like bolts of lightning, and there are no rules to follow once you scorched the Earth. You have to figure it all out on your own. How to laugh. How to hurt. How to hold on. How to let go.

In that old world, you had to find out the hard way what it means to be human.

/ /

Ashley could say that she is not sentimental, that the places in her heart that used to care have been carved out a long time ago and all that that remains is a sheet of blankness.

She could say these things and only one other person would know it is a lie. But he isn't here and it is a void that carries his name tonight, so Ashley can ignore what he would know and allow tender things to race forth.

All the pictures she meant to give, buried under shoes and clothes and hours upon the clock; all the messy lines and splotches of watercolors that she meant to share, all the doodles that a younger version of herself sketched out and that she smiled over as she planned on delivering them to the boy who lived on her street.

When her father became a joke and her mother became Christine, Ashley clung to that familial-like line that trailed to Aiden Dennison - and the stupid pictures that she had painted were never tossed out, never turned to trash and hefted to some landfill.

Ashley could say that she is not sentimental.

Aiden would know it is a lie, though.

Ashley knows it is a lie, too.

/ /

You fall back onto the sand and you breathe out and you breathe in and someone takes your hand; someone slides their fingers between your own and you shutter your stare from the cosmos because the universe wasn't answering you anyway - at least not how you expected.

The universe watches and waits.  
The universe gives when you think you do not need a thing.  
And the universe takes when you believe that you must have.

You breathe out and you breathe in. You don't seem to remember calling her up or saying her name or asking her to come here. You cannot recall all the steps you have taken to this moment - all the sleeping around, all the denial of self, all the feelings you tried to ignore, and all the feelings that bloomed regardless - you are not fully aware of anything tonight.

Except you are breathing.  
And she is holding your hand. You must have called her and she came to you.  
You've lost a friend but you've gained a sweet glimpse of romantic love.

The universe takes and the universe gives.

Again and again.

/ /

"Are you okay?"

Ashley feels like she has asked that question so many times to the girl beside her; so many minutes of wondering and guessing at what darkness could be behind such broken blue eyes. Ashley asked out loud, worried as blonde hair covered up a wasted face. Ashley asked in a whisper, against kisses and against flesh and against sweat. Ashley asked by not saying a damn thing at all, with looks too long and tentative caresses too frequent.

But now the situation is reversed and Spencer is the one asking.

Once she crumbled in those arms, unexpected and raw, and it felt so good to let someone really hold her.  
Aiden did as much as Ashley allowed - a shoulder to cry upon and then every confession was hidden once more - and then the two of them would drink and fuck the truth away.

With Spencer, though, Ashley has found it difficult to not give in and finally give up.  
Give up this pretense of indifference and remove this guise of a simple seductress; give in to the pull of interest and give in to the tug of honest want.

With Spencer, Ashley watched the fight abandon her body as if it were so easy and those battered fists have yet to return.

As if solidifying these facts, Ashley turns on her side and falls into Spencer instead of saying something, pinning their joined hands between their bodies. And Ashley tucks her head underneath Spencer's chin and the air is released from Ashley's lungs in a long sigh.

Shy fingers run through Ashley's hair and things are not okay, not in Ashley's 'new' world.

But things are not horrible either.

"I'm okay now."

/ /

**TBC**


	58. memory fifty eight

**And done. Thanks to all who read this & commented. It is appreciated.**

/ /

"Hey."  
"Hey yourself."

And the sun is not up yet but morning is getting closer. The sky has that perfect sort of color going on - the dark blue and the endless black, with a thin white line at the horizon, a smooth and blank sliver of a slate on which the new day will be written.

Spencer's voice is soft and it sounds a lot like the secrets a child would keep; the good kind of secret, though... Not the bad kind, not the kind of thing that kids must keep hidden in order to survive... Only good whispers these days, that's what Spencer's voice sounds like in this hour where night is releasing its hold and dawn slowly approaches.

They are awake but Ashley shuts her eyes once more and relishes the feeling of Spencer's skin against her fingertips - the tender brush of flesh against flesh, a running touch along the top edge of Spencer's underwear and so it is a caress to Spencer's lower back.

Ashley can almost hear Spencer's sleepy smile, can almost taste that expression on her tongue, and that knowledge causes Ashley to smile in return.

They have not said it. They have not said the words. They have not spoken about the feelings between them, even as they grow and even as they become apparent.

But it is there, oh it is there all the time these days, just another good secret to cherish for a while longer.

/ /

_"Ashley... I'd like to talk with you..."_

_But his voice just doesn't register anymore, does it? Not after the day you've had, not after the friend you have lost, not after all the years you have spent with these lies, not after all the hours you have spent on your own._

_He'd like to talk with you and that's the best joke you've heard in a long time._

_So, you walk past him and up the stairs and your room is so close - the only place you can shut away the world and lock the door on the mistakes, the only refuge you have besides... well, besides a girl you think you are falling in love with..._

_And how safe is that? How sure is Spencer of you? How sure are you of Spencer?_

_It's not like you've seen any relationship ever last.  
It's not like you've seen any good come of love._

_But you still called her up in your time of need and she came to you and for tonight... for tonight, you will see how far this ship will take you._

_"Ashley, please... __**please**__ talk to me..."_

_The conversation the two of you are not having is deafening, isn't it?_

_It clogs up your ears and it haunts your dreams; it drowns out everything. And all the days where you would have begged on your knees for him to just tell you the truth, to just let you in on the punch-line, to remind you of what you used to be worth... and to tell you that you are worth that much still... All the days where he could have said something and you waited._

_You waited and he never fucking showed._

_And now, now he wants to talk._

_You turn around at the top of the stairs and his eyes are on you, steady but scared, and you don't know if you want him to flee or if you want him to plead some more._

_You don't know what you want from him, especially now that you might get it._

_"What good will talking do?" You ask aloud; you ask this to him and to yourself. You flex your hands and can almost feel Spencer return the hold. You blink your eyes and can almost see Aiden in front of you._

_You feel the heat of tears that just won't leave and can almost hear your heart breaking again._

_"I... I don't know, Ashley, but I want to try and... I don't know, to try and explain some things... things about your mother and I-"  
"Which mother is that, hmm? The biological or the stand-in?"_

_The words hit him square in the face and you take pleasure in this - at least, a part of you enjoys it - while the rest of you aches to turn away and close that door and weep until you can no longer feel a thing where family is concerned._

_Of course, it is never that easy.  
Nothing is ever that easy._

_"Both, I guess. Anything you want to know... I should have told you, I __**know that**__, and I thought by not telling you... I thought that would fix things, fix Christine and I and keep us safe, keep us whole... I was wrong, I was __**so **__wrong."_

_You want to shout at him. You want to confirm his fears because he is not wrong where his failings count. You want to take a knife and cut him out of your body - cut away the memories, cut away the times where you once loved him and he once adored you and when all the coldness you could sense around the corners of this house were just odd mysteries that you could ignore._

_You want all of this to be a nightmare and to finally wake up._

_Of course, it is never that easy, is it?_

_Nothing is ever that easy._

_"You telling me the truth now is kind of anti-climatic, don't you think? I know about the woman who didn't want me and I know why Christine hates me... I know __**all **__about your lies so what is there left to say? Do you need to apologize and be forgiven? Am I supposed to help you wipe away some sort of guilt you are feeling?"_

_Oh, you sound so bitter and so hard and so uncaring. You sound cold and you sound defeated, too. You sound like a girl with a lot of rage, with a lot of sorrow, and you talk like you've got it all figured out... _

_...but those tears are still forming in your eyes and they continue to traitorously roll down your face and all these masks that you wear are threatening to crack and crumble and reveal you._

_You, Ashley Davies, a child who still longs for what used to be._

_"I'd settle for a chance to ask for your forgiveness, that's all, Ashley. Just a chance to make things right. That's all I want."_

_Nothing is ever that easy, though._

_And, yet, as much as you want to say 'no', you don't._

_But you don't say 'yes' either._

_You don't answer him at all. You just walk away._

/ /

There are moments when Spencer cannot take any of this in and it seems like too much to handle, too much for her reborn heart to feel and it would be simple to disappear again.

Then she looks over at Ashley's sleeping face, barely outlined in the purple light of the early hours and she feels the warm weight of Ashley's arm over her waist and Spencer knows that fading from view won't work this time.

Without realizing it, all this weaving has created a web that Spencer has no real desire to abandon. And Spencer's reborn heart beats so wildly in her chest, loud enough to sound like a call to arms - only Spencer responds to that thump-thump-thump, only Spencer hears those walls tumbling down, though.

There are moments when Spencer still wants to scream, still wants to grit her teeth in frustration and rage, still wants to let loose the comments that can wound Paula Carlin - or at least maim the woman - but then Glen steps in and cools the fire... or Ashley's voice carries over the phone or murmurs by her shoulder... and Spencer isn't immune to the disease in this house but she has learned to keep the sickness at bay.

Spencer has learned how to live instead of dying a slow death.

And she looks over at Ashley, so near and so perfect, and Spencer wants to hold off the day, hold off the waking, hold off the entire universe for a while longer. She wants to wants to place her palm against Ashley's chest and count the seconds between the beats. She wants to deliver a different kind of kiss to the different parts of Ashley's body - a sweet one to Ashley's stomach, a rough one to Ashley's hip.

There are moments when Spencer wishes she could erase how they met and do things over; Spencer wishes that her self-hatred had not been so deep when Ashley first touched her and that they did not have to meet in the middle of something so calculated. There are moments where Spencer isn't sure this is the right thing to do, not for herself and not for Ashley, too.

Because Spencer cannot erase the past.

Spencer cannot erase what has been done in the name of anger, in the name of sadness.

But then she looks over at Ashley and the brunette girl is awake and staring right back, a brown-eyed gaze still heavy with slumber, and Spencer couldn't move even if she tried.

"Hey."  
"Hey yourself."

And Spencer just cannot erase how Ashley makes her feel, even at that first moment - at a party and in a room and oh so wrong and oh so right...

...Spencer doesn't want to erase these feelings at all.

/ /

_"Sorry about tonight."  
"Whatever."_

_And you mean it. You are too tired to fight this time around and it shows, so Paula takes a well-aimed stab and you bleed. _

_Glen cannot fight all your battles. Hell, even you cannot fight all of your battles - sometimes the better part of valor is stepping back._

_Even when it feels as horrible as tonight._

_Then again, you are still living here. They didn't kick you out because that would have meant losing Glen, too. And you don't want to feel the bitterness that comes from knowing that you mean nothing to them, so you choke it back - you choke it all down and save the pain for the days when you can afford therapy._

_Or you let Glen distract you. Or you let Ashley console you. Or you try and bottle it up and punch the walls._

_Your left hand still hurts from the last time._

_Glen catches you staring at your bruised fist and he sits beside you on your bed, flinging an arm around your shoulders._

_"Come with me to the gym, Spence. You can totally picture Mom's face on a bag, it'll make you feel better."_

_You don't laugh but you do grin. That's all you've got for him tonight._

_"Yea, maybe."_

_Glen turns your face towards him, sure hand on your chin, and you don't try to hide the weariness in your gaze. You don't try to hide just how torn apart you are anymore.  
Not from your brother. Not in the hallways of school. Not with Ashley or around those parents you cannot deal with._

_You used to be good at hiding. You used to be good at fighting.  
You used to be good at covering all of this up. You used to be good at being invisible._

_Now, the dam has burst and you are everywhere and it is scary and it is exhilarating and you never know what will happen next. Just that you are here, alive and breathing, and you didn't manage to kill yourself after all._

_You didn't disappear._

_And you have found affection where you least expected it. You have found a piece of land to stand on and it isn't falling away from your feet._

_"I know this isn't easy, okay? I know but you've got me... Don't shut me out again, Spence. Don't do it, okay?"_

_And you want to say that you won't close off from him but you are never fully sure of yourself - even now. This is all so new, this world of you being real and no longer the fairy-tale girl who forgot how to fly._

_The window is open and you can take flight. If you want to, that is._

_You don't have to be Wendy anymore, trapped in between Never-Never Land and the cold, hard truth. You don't have to be alone anymore..._

_...if you don't want to be, that is._

_You've got Glen. You've got Ashley._

_And she may not be strong enough to speed around the world yet, but you have yourself, too._

_"I'm... I'm doing my best, Glen. Every day, I'm doing the best that I can."_

_His arms wrap you up and you are swimming in this embrace and you take comfort from this, you take confidence from your brother, and you step out into the sky._

_You step out into the unknown and you don't crash to the ground._

/ /

Ashley does not know if this is a forever kind of thing. She does not know if Spencer will be the only face she'll ever want to see at the beginning of the day or at the start of the night. The emotions attached to right here and right now could change as they go on - they could grow apart, they could dissolve, they could find that this is all temporary and transient.

Spencer could wake up one day and no longer need Ashley in her life. Or Ashley could wake up one day and no longer need Spencer around, no longer want to softly laugh into the curve of Spencer's neck. Sure, they might have saved one another, but that does not fill up every crevice of existence. And once someone is rescued, where does that leave the heroine?

There isn't a guarantee between the two of them. They signed no contract and they made no pact; they didn't swear any oath nor have they pledged any vow.  
Neither one of them look in the mirror and see the reflection of what makes a 'good' girlfriend - they see the meaningless hook-ups; they see the night that they met one another and sometimes that night outweighs all the other nights that have followed.

Neither one of them know if this will last.

And Ashley hates uncertainty. And Spencer hates insecurity.

But it is finally morning and light starts to conquer the heavens and Ashley can see Spencer and Spencer can see Ashley and suddenly forever doesn't seem to matter much at all.

They have right here. They have right now.

And fathers will continue to struggle. And mothers will continue to pine and pummel. And siblings will stick around or fade away. And friends will come and go and come back again.

Right here and right now, they have each other.

And so the future can just burn.

/ / / / / / /

**END**


End file.
